Given the infinity of quantum
probability, it’s not unreasonable
to suppose that through erosion
of some substance on some planet
yet to be, you will be flatteringly
modeled into statuary.
Equivalents of desert wind could
carve your face into equivalents
of sandstone, as a home-grown
Ozymandias: all enigmatically
reformed – standing up to scrutiny –
maybe by a swarm
of poets pondering divinity. Unless
they’re not in the vicinity. But wait
another trillion years: something
will bring up the rear, and there
you’ll be, at last, before a throng.
We could be wrong.
.
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