The cloth tears
shredding
dust unfurling
circling towards the ground
glinting as the sun slices through the shades
burning on each fleek a final glow
a most mundane silent explosion

The universe tearing apart
scattering the stars at high speeds
rocks tearing through black
turning into space sand
things becoming smaller
So minuscule there’s no word for
what is more minuscule than quarks

It’s contrary then  
That quiet even exists
day after day certain things I feel I’m owed
a sense of guaranteed control over my destiny,
when all I am is the shrapnel of the stars
collected together in a precarious cluster
a mathematical anomaly of particles
that settled together
blindly believing they’ll never fall apart.