Another gray, black-eye sunrise,
******* and insomniac,
awake as the earth spins again onward
into the mutable mass of gas and plasma.
How many of them must there be?
The number will rise up
into the trillions, they say,
as the top continues its turn;
dizzying now and incomprehensible.
The sun bigger and bigger
slowly each time, growing
until this small marble
is overtook by some
dystopian beachballl of fusion
and fission, blistering away with
such anger; imbalance.

Hungover, contemplating ends,
I think the bullet may be alright;
regarded as painless if aimed well.
Imagining split-second blitzkriegs
of neural discomfort prior
to blackness, I dismiss the thought.
The sun is up fully now, stretching.
Red giants, they say are cooler
than their white counterparts,
but larger.

All the fights, from the bar
to the battlefield.
All the love, from the brothel
to the bedroom.
All the life, progress, movement,
everything and nothing;
muted by colliding hydrogen particles
emitting heat.
Is it so terrible to be irrelevant?