A star is not a cold rock
a dulled reflective face,
like glazed glass.

It burns when your eyes are closed
it devours itself
while jagged rocks pirouette
rugged rings around the fire.

Variegated spheres swirl
in the cosmic whirlwinds,
as waves radiate from a distance,
bathing all in their path in its brilliance.

I don't know why worlds plummet
like stones from the sky.

I don't know why worlds must die
before a child can reach the summit.

This sick trip they drag you into
from the wet warm of the womb
is not living, but just a tomb,
a sealed and silent little room,
a fleeting glimpse at everything.

All I know is, a star is not a rock.
And death does not discriminate.