Celestial graveyards, our Galaxies.
Existential spontaneities.
My brief blink’s seen supernovas die.
Yet, bare, aware; to think…or ask, “why?”.
Fade swift from mind’s eye, REM dreams.
Still, waking science twists how real seems.
Too, whilst I strut, many things are born.
Many great primed lives felled by foul thorn.
Life’s beauty secret is constant death.
Phosphorous sight twixt first & last breath.

