It seems I lie back and gaze beyond the stars
spread like memories glimpsed from dying life,
where each simple bright could warm so many homes
which wakes the suicide I was denied.
I look round this peaceful, complex containment,
and emptiness beguiles like trying not to sleep.
I’m hidden, stilled in dreamless years of death
before this self–aware Celeste sparks my life again.
I become Michelangelo man every tick–tock century,
to hear a new report saying much the same again.
I’m trapped in disappointment, in artificial birth,
this God rewinds my history, I’m repeatedly restressed.
Yet, as I am reconstructed, so we could inflame
some sterile globe boring round a sun,
infecting an unbirthed peace with life’s chaotic charm.
I could contradict my people’s stupid die.