How Small the World Becomes

The Earth, in a permanent cycle
Of darkness and light, of rain,
Of dryness and sunlight and wind,
Of life, of joy and of pain,
Is so inconceivably small
And all so unworthy of seeing
Any time that I look in her eyes,
As she consumes my whole state of being.

It is not that this pale blue dot
We reside on is lacking in beauty,
Nor do I imply
That its skies are dull or unmoving,
But apathy surrounds me toward
All the politics, people and such
When I gaze at her magical eyes
And I feel that subtle touch.

How small the world all becomes,
The wars of the Gods and the kings,
And how boring the prospect is
To even think of other things.
What little with her I recall
Of gold and material wealth,
Instead I am only concerned
Of where I touch and where I am felt.

Words are so restrained
To describe my fluttering heart
Or the resentment I feel for the clock
When it tells us we must be apart.
My everything safe in my arms,
The rest of the world is a blur.
There is only one thought on my mind.

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