Cyclical

A poem about creation

A star exploded and there you were, screaming. A comet in the palm of the universe, swimming in circles like a tadpole in a birdbath. Was there nothing before the something? Or was there everything all at once? Everything a mess, a cesspool of possibility before being refined, condensed, pushed and pulled through pupils into shapes like play-doh through a spaghetti maker. Some believe the atoms in their bodies were placed in that order for a specific purpose, their paths a hidden illumination of arrows drawn in the fingerprints of clockmakers. Some believe in ghosts that like to rearrange the furniture. Some believe in nothing but the candle’s flame. Only one of them or none of them can be right. For most, their age will show in their hands before their faces. Denying the nature of life is like trying to set fire to the moon. Worms and bugs eat the bodies of the dead, just as red giants devour worlds, before ejaculating their essence into the black uterus of the void, where gravity waits to claim them. A star exploded, and there you were, screaming.