Sometimes I feel like I’m under
A giant’s enormous spyglass.
A bored giant, chuckling at my grand plans,
At the ignorance of my own smallness, nothingness,
A little ant to him, climbing a grass blade as
If it was the Everest, proud, oh so proud, to be
At the top of the world, hearing what
I hope -no, decide- is thunder but know
Is the giant’s roar of glee. Sometimes I wonder
If the giant is God, or at least a god, a deity
Of sorts, an oversized Pan resting from all
That run, that chase after half naked nymphs,
Playing little jokes on me. You know, cute
Tiny things, like putting pebbles in my way:
Unsurmountable boulders, that I either
Must climb up and down, break through them
Or go around, but in any case, slow my march,
My momentum, my race to the finish
Line, that will mark my worth and significance.
And the fatuous giant rumbles with delight
At my ludicrous efforts for a bright, heroic life.
But there are advantages to being so small.
Sometimes you look up and see beyond.
Past, afar from what is evident,
And on that day, at the top of my Everest,
I rose my eyes and saw a giant, smirking,
breaking the clouds with his inaudible laugh,
As he looked at my vicious, arrogant god,
through a gargantuan, colossal spyglass.