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Cosmic Fleas

We're all just passengers
riding on this cosmic ball.
We're here the briefest moment
We live and die, that's all.

Our deeds, are mostly fleeting
like cracks in breaking glass
You and I, alike are pointless
we live, then come to pass.

So, you think a hundred years or more
of time, to be the end...
It's spitting in the ocean-
it's fantasy, pretend.

We whirl about this cosmic ball
we think its all for us...
but sad are you, when out, you find
that which we don't discuss.

So wrap your brain in cellophane
keep hid your sad beliefs...
for God knows all the Indians,
and we're not among the Chiefs.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
I have a brother who is a terminally ill cancer patient. We were discussing the realities of talking to God about this place, and what his answers might be like.
Editing stage: 


Although the "Last few words" add a new perspective, perhaps include it in the poem somehow.

The line
but sad are you, when out, you find
is all fucked up, Yoda talk, a bad inversion. I really suggest you work on it.

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