I awake

at the window

a star blinks its cold eye

it is unfeeling, unseeing,

silent and indifferent.

yet I carve for myself some merit in it,

some significance.



The planet, indeed the universe

is not distracted in it's turning.

Not for me, not for you,

nor the millions of breaths that rise and fall.



Perhaps we see our existence as a tide

eroding some crumbling shore.

Yes there is a patient inevitability.

But if a star can fade peacefully and die

leaving only emptiness

Then should I suppose I matter.



Yes, I insist

I craft for myself a rebellion,

however inconsequential and fleeting.

I laugh into the void, like a struck match

weakly holding back the silent blackness.



The eternal ground beneath me rumbles

"you are nothing."

Yet still I hold my chest high

in folly I conjecture with my imperfect hands.

Cups of tea poured with ceremony.



I will write, I will create, I will build

I will love fiercely, in silent defiance.

The delusion only serves to magnify the audacity.