Some of us build towers with blocks.
We carefully place dull red block after worn red block
atop the one before, reaching for unattainable heights.
We knew the outcome from before
when some force sent our efforts crashing down.

Force comes way of a terrible brother, jealous gravity, or
the God who sees and knows and cannot have towers made of blocks.

Then why do we keep picking up the blocks?
Why don't we grab a few handfuls of blue light?
Just rip open your chest, dig into your soul with your fingernails,
scratch away the sediment and rock formations.
When you find the light bursting through the gaping wound,
and when you struggle to breathe and to live,
remember you know how to suture the hole.

Only take but a little of the light.
Stick it in your pocket, behind your ears, in the spaces
between your teeth.

And let them try to send the light crashing down. The light builds from beams that are ever connected. It doesn't shatter.

Though if it did, you would just create another galaxy.