The Agony of Creation

It begins with a word, gasping in the dark,

Whereupon the echoes of its birth sound to heaven and hell,

Far cries become whispers as they fold out into the infinite,

The song begins.

From darkness is light, from light, a furtive mote of life,

Until this desert is populated by so many humming grains of sand,

That oblivion is a dream, the vast emptiness a teasing boast,

So songs grow.

Awareness is a gift that demands a form of ego death,

But it is granted to the living and the sand beyond imagination,

Reaching a lunar heaven so devoid of warmth that it weeps diamonds,

The song ascends.

Like so many glittering particles found behind your closed eye,

Lingering as an echo, reverberating endlessly, reborn only to die,

Weeping in a place too bright, too loud, too brimming with potential,

The song cannot end, but it would like to.

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