in the beginning, there was no god.

in the soundless chambers of time and space

it was born.

small and insignificant;

its face blotchy and fat with flesh—

a sputtering mess  on its own—

eyes glowing bright,

the stars illuminated in response to it,

their dust reflective and vain compared to its eyes.

 

Their tongue was made of moonshine

and dry with stardust.

They were in but the child of

oblivion, unknown and renowned,

unforeseen.

 

it babbles softly in the fibers of space and time,

the universe crying mercilessly for answer.

Yet the child will only coo,

its heavenly body occupied with more timely affairs.

we must look up.

i don’t want to look up

since looking up allowed it to happen.

seeing it, allowing its beaming blue,

observing the flash it made in the night sky;

it killed us before it even came.

 

i wonder if it could’ve stopped,

if it was punishment for the time

i didn’t lend him my pencil.

not because i didn’t have one,

but because my pencil was too good for him

 

yet the more i think about it

i become grateful, for now the earth

has been granted purity,

a renaissance, a chance to be

born once again.

 

and as I feel my skin become dust

i burn bright like fire

and we all become stars,

decorating the night sky

or more precisely, space.