The fragile existence sounds in the wind,
As a shattered memory.

Decaying history,
Overridden by the crows’ prelude to Death
In an empty realm of dark, intangible instruments.

The storms whisper of a pitiable past,
An artificial present withering away into a
Futile future.

The rainy rampage collapses into infinity-
A mystery dissolving like ice:

Life.

‘Tis here, the old Story is told:
We are all made of stardust,

An accident in the history of the universe.
An explosion (a mistake) that formed the infinite possibilities of randomness.
But we are all One, we are Naught.

We are all made of stardust; we are all made of History.

These ethereal realities never cease to implode
Within the vastness of emptiness.

Eternity exists in one second’s thought; the entirety, in my palm.