What’s our value?
What’s this power
That our instruments can’t measure?
Power to imagine and manifest
Power to breathe and move our limbs
Power that leaves with dying breath
Power fickle and formless
We build things so we must be gods
Or does the octapus do the same?
Then is it all a silly game?
Or does that question hurt my name?
For living is the only thing
We know we’re meant to do
And when the red sun rises cool
Another race will ponder who it was that set them spinning round in circles
Self aware past benefit
Guarding life in all its facets
While the universe collapses