Alive

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To borrow one of Robert Heinlein's book titles — Citizen of the Galaxy.

The inky blackness smothers,
pushing on the backs of my eyes.

Cold. Dark. Night.

Pinpoints of light piercing the void,
patterns unchanged since the ancients.

Stars. Shine. Down.

Beacons of light about the sky,
casting shadows across the eons.

Whites. Brilliant. Bright.

Ghostly limbs reaching for the sky,
forming quilt patterns in the air.

Silent. Wooden. Sentinels.

Tickles the senses, the wonder, the awe.
Weeping eyes glued to the spectacle above.

Cold. Crisp. Bracing.

Standing alone, in wonder of it all.
An insignificant speck, lost in the Milky Way.

Alone. Small. Solitary.

Giving thanks for being me, being alive,
being a witness, being a servant.

Existing. Breathing. Praying.

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