The Inconsequence Of It All (Poem)

Artists die. Musicians die. Writers die.

Politicians die. Reporters die. Announcers die.

I die. You die. We all die.

I found an edible can of potted meat,

Dated from a long-ago war.

Scientists revived an ancient worm,

Frozen in time over the millennia.

We’re not all that, and when we’re gone,

Cyclic existence continues on.

Hari om tat sat.