we are all sacrosanct in how precious our lives

singing, storytelling to the heavens our truth

keening against empty night and our aloneness

we are here, a world crafted out of love and blood

born possessing the mettle to thrive in the mud

and an exquisite weakness: only we witness

our fires, all our metal spires and our ruth

this is who we are: lonely Keepers of Archives.

we are, as a people, perhaps unique, distinct

in our existence as, elsewhere we’ve searched in space,

we’ve not found even death, just rife desolation.

we’re billions of Stargazers watching Creation

we’re Craving to meet another sapient race

with whom we could become inextricably linked.

but the stars spin on, growing, collapsing, and we

must contend with the fear that Earth will be our tomb

and, should we drive ourselves extinct, none will exhume

our history, if we are truly The Only.

the universe quiets, constellations can’t mourn

but provide grand sepulchres for us, The Forlorn.