Epitath

There are countless nodes of spawning
On the fabric of space time.
Each node repeatedly explodes
In sync with cosmic rhyme.

Each burst brings forth a universe,
Expanding on it's way,
And then collapsing inward
On it's final cosmic day.

One of these unlikely nodes,
On cycle sixty one
Hundred billion some odd million,
Thought it would be fun

To make a Pygmy universe,
Quite small without a doubt,
A hundred billion galaxies
Or somewhere there about.

Nestled in the midst of them,
Undistinguished though,
There was spiral galaxy,
A trillion stars or so.

Near it's outer edge there lay
A sun with pockmarked face,
And a blue white M class planet
Orbiting in space.

This speck, it see seems, was fecund.
On it there came to be
A hundred million species in
It's evolution tree.

One species that persisted,
A million years or so,
Was called, I think, the human race -
So sad as species go.

They poisoned their small planet and
I've heard they did much more;
Exterminated species
Then destroyed themselves in war.

No vestige of their clan survived
To prove that they were there,
So no one ever noticed them
And no one seemed to care.