life is death is life again, blisters crawl across the skin, the story of a scar’s origin.  on the losing ***** of our next big win - gambling your heart like it’s got a twin.  fall becomes a sense that’s deafening as the particles that make up empty bottles are lessening.

when a star dies, gold is born - a partial explanation for the colours at dawn.  seeing two suns where there once was one is the universe explosively laughing all night long. cosmic alchemy radiates down, passing through everything without making a sound.  iron becomes gold, becomes the mined stuff of the ground, becomes some of the finer things we see passed around.

a star is a death waiting for itself, we are life waiting to be a star.  gravity is now our only friend so we can become what we already are: a slightly conscious carbon, waiting to become semi-conscious platinum, waiting to become the next vibration of a fully conscious solar system; a cosmic circadian rhythm.  we’re the REM cycle of a deity who’s chasing dragons and half asleep; ******’s to help the dream for those who’ve shot all the counted sheep.  we’re the descendants of a star too afraid to go soft, or the galactic equivalent of a mad-man with a sawed-off.

you aren’t lost when the rest of the world views life less as a value and more of a cost.  life goes back to the earth where it becomes the making of a new star’s birth.  that is our real worth.