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Masses of matter floating about,

Pressed together and flung about.

Black holes of nothingness,

Yet a universe of infinite masses.

Me, reduced to a speck of dust,

So why in all of this do I matter?


Am I in anyway significant?

Does this speck of dust stand apart?

Hurled through space on a blue-green ball.

Do I even have meaning in this world?

And how do I fit into the greater cosmos?

Or am I just that speck awaiting destruction?


May I leave a mark that will prove I’ve existed,

In this ever-expanding macrocosm?

May I prove my brief presence here,

Diminutively or to the nth degree?

What proof may I leave behind?

Will words only suffice?


Galaxy upon galaxy and yet here I am,

A cog in the universal wheel.

If I am but a dot within the greater creation,

Shall I shout at a fever pitch,

Or speak at my own volume to be heard?

Just to be heard?


Is it possible to remain unassuming,

Live out my numbered, ever-dwindling days,

While preparing to leave some part of me behind?

Is this it? These humble words on a page?

Perhaps my lot in life is written, being written,

My mark upon the cosmos may be left here.


To most this is just black ink bonded to paper,

To me it is my legacy and proof that I’ve lived.

Therefore, allow me to seek the proper tone.

Will the writing suffice to provide proof?

Only if these words find readers.

If no one reads then this will just stand as ink on paper.


Shall I stand and deliver the lines aloud,

My last act of insubordination?

Or remain the unassuming, unknown writer,

Seeking his voice and his place in the universe?

I seek that answer for this is my opportunity,

It may be the only chance for this tiny speck to matter.