I, Thou, not born

 I, thou, not born of a bungled existence plunged into the heavens for not. Who would choose to live an untextured life? 

The making of constellations is the making of eternity, not the temporary twinkle of excess stardust scattered thin to earth glazing the minds of fools who celebrate what is dirt beneath. 

Complete like Sun; is not this the mark? To hear the gratitude of the mindful in the silence of an infinitesimal mindlessness; isn’t this some goal written in our very own Orbital Catalogue? 

Who can feel a distant star when it worships linear intangible dust?Consumed to silt relying on wonders they go, dismissing yet the Great Wonderer; down to the Nether grave-implode they dine to die, but you, I, unconsumed we rise — perfectly emptied. Nothing I pen for you is lost, and white-hot, my Love, for you my zeal-fire burns forever. 

jP2023 Fall Tide