The Pale Blue Dot Poem by Robert Tomlinson

Could one shrink one's thinking down into a single dot?
Concentrate, distil, reduce each strand,
Each corpuscle of intellect so it would fit,
Perhaps, on a pin's head, which then,
This tiny shaft now strong,
What with all the scrunching up,
Which then would spear on axis,
A javelin to speed unending through our distant space,
Bearing the truth complete,
A crux of all you strived
To satisfy your inner self's humanity,
And, dare we say it, soul.
So that, from distance infinite,
Your pin of truth would shine,
As does that famous photograph of Planet Earth from space,
‘The Pale Blue Dot'.

So now you've channelled all your weighty thoughts,
Supreme, pin-loaded treasure trove of sorts,
Yet see, here comes a breeze which has them caught.

Now drifting free of artifice and style?
Weightless, distilled, essenced, oh please don't mock,
Humanity itself looks on, takes stock,
Instead, admire this, now's the time to smile.
The word which comes to mind most apt, futile.