Consoled by the polished thought
That a thousand suns will live and die
Before the stuff of consciousness
Fades into obscurity, I observe.

I see a timid creature stumble,
In want of clarity and mirth
Yet bound by earthy shackles
And oblique society
To live in dust.

Yet this dust golem is not a mistake,
But a millionth millions of mistakes,
The individual a multiverse
Borne of the stuff of stars-
Of those thousand suns burning
Like the furious passion of
An angry deity without a name,
Known only to those with open minds
And closed eyes, not the reverse.

This little mite has a home,
And myriad homes in every heart
That beats under the constant light
Of suns without number,
Living and dying
For you.