We’ve always been hopeless,
and now our usual blue,
clamped overhead with gazillion thumbtacks,
has fallen upon us like an enormous canopy.
The pale blue, an overlooked wound,
we were too proud to not have,
spews us with some more gray.
We’ve started to believe this canopy is too big too thick for us
to puncture with our mightiest missiles.
Our collective acumen, an insignificant specimen,
is now a frightened, wounded pup.
Some of us are afraid to even open our mouths.
Some so valiant, we write poems.
We all say, we,
negligible bit on an imperceptible planet
circling around a fireball circling around
one spewed spiral mess, not bigger than an atom
in whole sandstorm, falling into infinity,
are so feeble
and dumb to be important.
We’re even more hopeless.
We cannot fathom our own existence.
This us is just one dot on a canvas.
Our enemy is a dot inside us.