If I reach into your traveling star
will these hands turn to ash?

If I can no longer picture your calming eyes
in my imagination are you then gone
from my weary hearthfire?

Do the glowing embers fall silent the moment
I have forgotten the places where
we practiced our cosmic devotions?

When this time has passed
I am still not whole and no one
can save all these mists of rain,
alien roses gone green,
misty mountain spires blackened
by the pummeling fists of time.

I am the creator who wants to crush fear,
knowing this rushing onslaught of unasked-for doubt
and heart instability rises like bile from our thrashing chests.

In a moment I am gone.
Alone until the end,
the soul-missle has self-destructed.

We are children of detonation,
the demolished remnants cleared away
to make room for something new.

This could not be prevented.
Souls twist on the noose.
Soft rain descends and
the smell of death pervades.