A Coda of Fission; Skyblaze
rating: +4+x

The sun, lost in translation among
the billion trillion stars. Candle fire spread
across the crude oil: consuming.
What insignificance to look up
and marvel at that hydrogen bomb
in the sky, knowing still that
it will rage, rage on
against the dying of its light
against the rival burning warlords,
concentrically ordering fiery genocide.

Those stars are embroiled in
brutal civil war, leading to supernovae, particles
making up the universe, compounds
making up my arms my fingers my hands
the accident, child, son, of suns drowned
in their own heatdeath.

Look up at mother sun,
down at father earth, again
at brother sea.
Science is vain wonder, is history
of great stellar wars, slow
battles fought between iridescent gas,
waged with physics instead
of glowing molten lead.

As reacting deuterium spins and
radial axioms tilt forward leaning
ever so slightly, causing billions to be
birthed at not a second glance like bullets
shot from a hot rifle,
ritual of occasion, quarks aligning just right
for the possibility for us to mirror the sky.
For the hope of someday reaching mother again and
from string theory paradigms, to find some reason
for the hope of someday.

To marvel in this pagan, quantum art,
at cosmic family, estranged. Is suicidal
comfort, replacing laboratories with staterooms
with stuffy men of carbon and oxygen,
you and I the sum of our formula.
Such a life where men forgo peace — life, death, life death;
fight, rage, die against the falling stars,
shooting stars at brothers-sisters-mothers-
fathers watching as the sun burns out
one last fatal shock as
gravity collapses in on itself, finetuned
cruel universe watching as men huddle in bunkers and
lights go out.

Turning back then towards its universal war.
Caring not, caring not.

The son, lost in battle among
the billion trillion other soldiers.
What arrogance to look up
and gape at the universe.
What makes up this cosmological war,
you and I caught in the cross-fire —
See undone
our charade, hidden in the white
chalk on blackboards was always some
noble lie of progress.
For the possibility for man to become sun,
for the possibility to fight like one.
Ordering genocide.

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