It Seems to Be a Pattern

Knowing humans are recent and brief,
Knowing, however few humans
Read this, that no one not human can,

Does it not seem strange to offer this up
At all? Instead of composing fictions
Filled with human social dramas, for which

The ideal audience would be humans,
To speculate, as human language,
On things of passing interest to your own

For other audiences that don’t, likely
Never will, exist? Tombstones carved
For aliens, for other tombstones to read

And consider, wondering how such petty
Patterns ever could have mattered
To matters irrelevant to such patterns.