I walk your teeming streets unseen…
unnoticed by the scrambling hordes.
How placidly they scamper by,
as if they rule the Universe…
Surely there are those
who know the truth
of the matter…
That you are insects to the gods.
Your little world is insignificant
to all but you.
And, really, do you hold it
in much esteem?
It’s very touching—
in its way—
the worry you have for the future.
As if your actions count.
It’s an awful kind of innocence,
waiting to be dashed
by the bittersweet knowledge
that all you do is in vain.
Eventually, someone will
get around to cleaning up the place…
but you won’t like
the results.