Tristan Robert Lange
The Planet
One can\'t make this world,
This cold, calculating orb,
This sphere of rock and dust,
Turn kinder than it does.
The calculus minds are blind
To the fate of silent sufferers,
Pantomime performers
Of whom no one takes note.
Left in an icy chest of apathy
Are they who rely on heroes
On this desolate space rock;
The planet is completely uncaring.
Specks in a sea of particles,
We float on in dissolution
Over the hellish reality
In which we ourselves are mired.