Inconsistent

I swipe the stars from the sky
revealing the vast dark underbelly.
I rub the remaining colors into a blur
of textural gas and particle matter.

I reveal the finite nothingness and
the walls separating it from
an absolute
greater nothing.
We are all a smaller piece,
a minutia,
of some greater nothing.

In this lack of purpose
I feel perfect.

I never dream anymore
like I once had every night.
I never quite feel awake.
I never quite feel awake.

I bend as matter bends
to the rhythm of a string strumming me
into a wave of existence
all on its own.
I bend as matter bends
in a flat and spinning precursor to itself.
I bend as matter bends
at the suggestion of time and space.
I bend as matter bends,
waiting in fear of a greater meaning,
hidden.

I swipe the stars from the sky
and watch the empty space sink into darkness.
There is no before or after,
all is a return to the here and now.

I feel perfect
in this lack of purpose.

If I ever die I want to come back as a worm.
If I ever die I want to come back as the worm.