are made out of starlight,
how come our lives feel
so slow
and heavy?
Everything we know
is supposedly
made of the stuff,
but still
there are so many
words to learn.
Everything we do
(so we're told)
is a vector
of spellbound elemental matter—
and yet, many
are bad actors,
and others
have reasonably
decent intentions
but nevertheless fail
to state their cases right.
In fact,
if everything we say
is a violent stream
of photons,
heat beams,
unstable nuclei,
then who's to say
we're the same people
we claimed
to be when we
went to sleep last night?
Then again—
if even the totality
of all we can
capably imagine
is starlight, then
none of this
is wrong, because
everything's
alright.
