It will not miss us

at the end.
It will not yearn for the days
when we wandered in
microscopic abundance
across its randomly
chiseled face.
It will not reflect on the marvel
that was the thin scum
coating its surface at one time.
It will not mourn for the days
that could have been
but weren't.
It will never have been
Mother, and it
never will have been
alive,
aware,
spirit-soaked,
or any of the
thousand other
wishful hallucinations
the micro-beings may have
believed it to have been.
It will not wish the thin, sticky
residue
was still sloshing around its outer rim,
proliferating and diversifying.
Whether the micro-beings'
descendants
are there to be swallowed whole
in Sol's death agonies
or not
will be a matter of profound
indifference to it.
None of the
hypnotic chants,
delirious songs,
and lovely words
thrown at its eternally
deaf ears
will ever have been
noticed.
The summation of its
history will be:
It was not.
Then it was.
Then it was not again.