Strife

On a quiet night bellowing with the blankets of winter cold biting at the fingers and the nose, count the ceaseless stars in the pervading still waters of the cosmos and the museum of unique light. Hear the whine of the sorcerer, the blue shift of the lugubrious nuclear reactions in the flight of the train coming home to the station near the waterfront. The battlefront between the past and the present, the light of the stars and the terrestrial horn of a far away locomotive a dichotomy of reality and perspective. Insignificance, strife, the known universe aloof to the vibrancy of humanity in a display of frigid perfection across the vacuum of eons. What is left but shear introspection, the remnants of a shattered mirror reflecting not the truth but ambiguity and boundless questions. As with entropy, the chaotic will of the years reduces simplicity to a multitudinous formula marred by variables, a steady bank of fog obscuring the bitter end. All that is left is the echoes, the pulsating light of the lighthouse, a perpetuating familiarity towards identity. Against the pathway to infinity, the singular fires of the solar systems and galaxies indifferent to warm tears crawling below the eyes are but a dream to living, breathing and loving. The thousands of billions of the pieces of the puzzle of the thousands of billions of the pieces of the puzzle on what is earth and what is what rival impossibility. The singularity that is fuels imagination and the notion to persist.