Every quark of gristle
sings to a star
about some incomprehensible
connection
between pain and beauty.
Angels cock
their heads, perplexed
and ever so sweetly
troubled
by the music
emitted from your
nuclei.
Something about your
gravity and grief
gives them
courage. They long
to clothe themselves in bone,
the very stuff that
weighs you down
to this mother
of bodies,
the planet pulsing
with silver hair, sweet grass,
empty park
benches and
lonely faces
of dissolving frost
on maple leaves.
All Gods yearn
to fathom the
opacity of your tears,
and smother their
brilliant souls
in dust.
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