Universe

• Lindsey Kitchener, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2013

The stars. The great sheet, bleached in patches and speckles, clusters of light, like the accidental workings of a clumsy child giant, with fistfuls of craft glitter.
Like tv static in a darkened room, ‘how long has that been on?’. Staring, staring. ‘You’ll get square eyes if you keep going!’, a seemingly reasonless aspect of life, everyone simply accepts. Or like the one scrap of gilded fabric, found in the depths of the clothing donation bag, tucked away underwing, a rare treasure, a monumental find for a kid, with no idea of real wealth
Each tiny dot, a glowing lamp, blending together in a smear, just as beautiful apart as in formations. One such mark, a red drop runs down the great glass dome. On the dewed window, not unseeable, mankind’s attempt, accidental, at recreating the stars.
How envious am I, of these gas orbs. Millions, millions away that cannot feel. Stars don’t love, nor emotionally cripple, nor abuse, neither to themselves nor others. Mankind, instilled with awe, moved by the raw emotions produced by the sight of a great stone that has none, and doesn’t ponder on life, or fear death. And simply is.
And elsewhere, a colossal flame, waits, crouched, and peers out at a sea of his brethren, and amongst those pinpricks of light is our tiny blue speck.