A Supernova’s Discontent

I have never known the peace
of satisfaction,
just the endless gnawing hunger
of want.
Desperate and empty,
with all the stability
of an imploding star.
I crave the hearts of worlds
not my own,
spread thin
across the cold yearning
of my own expectation,
hollow hands with open palms
reaching ever outward. 

My frame, too fragile to contain a supernova’s discontent,
vomits up my insecurities
until I am nothing but dust
to be flung to the farthest corners
of a new universe,
to drift among the debris
and taste the atoms
of creation,
to scream my fever dreams
into the void of deafening silence, desire given a voice
absent of sound.

Would it be enough?
To streak across the heavens and crash,
burning bright
with plutonic rage,
into the dark sides of undiscovered moons
consuming their mysteries in the fire of my wretched curiosity.

Would it be enough?
To send the frozen shards of my bones
into the diamond shine
of the ice giants,
to crystallise in the harsh embrace
of forgotten gods
and reverberate with the echo
of their memories.

Would it be enough?
To flood my veins
with the precious metal tang
of Mercury’s iron core
and drown my thirst
in the quicksilver rivers
of a planet’s lifeblood.

Would it be enough?
To watch the universe expand in reverse,
evolution rewind
and pull me backwards through time to take origin’s first breath,
to coat my lungs in stardust
and await
the spark of life.

Perhaps this
is the theory
of evolution,
the blinding light
of a dying sun.

Caught for an instant,
a lifetime,
an eon,
in gravity’s last stand.
Trapped on the teetering edge
of annihilation,
breathless in the space
between heartbeats,
for the big bang.

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