Pet Planet
There’s a theory
that our planet
was created by a civilization
much more advanced than our own.
It speculates that a higher intelligence
is using us
as their little plaything.
A pet planet
if you will.
It would explain
why Earth seems to be locked
in an endless loop of misery.
Maybe our pain,
our chaos,
our stupidity,
is fodder for their entertainment.
Our world
is their Roman Coliseum.
A Disneyland of degradations.
A Las Vegas show
of vapid perversity
Like children
peeking into a library
filled with books
written in a language
they cannot understand,
we sense the mystery of the universe,
a cosmic order,
but can only comprehend
the most rudimentary concepts.
And most of us
can’t even grasp those.
Maybe they watch us
in the way we watch slapstick movies
or game shows.
Munching popcorn,
slurping soda,
surfing the porn channel and back.
Sometimes they reach in,
stir up a tsunami,
kick a few tectonic plates around,
throw an asteroid our way.
They’re tickled
that the most delicious foods
are bad for us,
though mystified
that we let so many go hungry
when clearly there’s enough
for everyone.
Amused by our variety of religions.
“Such imaginative storytelling!”
Entertained by our ability
to come up with ever new reasons
to hate our fellow man.
“Kinda sexy
how they’re always at each other’s throats.”
Intrigued by our desire for domination
over others.
“Curious how it’s never enough
for the rich to have everything,”
one of them smirks.
“They’re not satisfied
until the poor have nothing!”
At times they almost pity us.
“The little half-wits never learn,
do they?
How can it be
that there has never been a war
shocking enough
to galvanize them all
into ending their madness?”
Peering into our windows,
they sense our loneliness,
feel our despair.
“Look, she’s eating a frozen pizza
by herself again, they murmur.
Maybe you have awoken from dreams,
in the dark chill of night,
never remembering
who cradled you in their arms,
who lullabied you to sleep
in the moonlight,
under a thick blanket of stars.
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