I’m not the sun or the moon, though
I dream of being centered. I’m not
I dream of being centered. I’m not
an asteroid, powerful enough to decimate
life. Nor am I a galaxy, a system,
a supernova, white dwarf, red
giant, or other creature bending
space to its will. I’m not the star.
I’m no bigger than a mushroom
shaped like a potato. I’m dense.
Don’t mistake me, I’m still celestial,
made from spacedust and magma.
I’m not alone. We travel in packs,
roaming, hungry. And when we reach
an atmosphere, we will burn
through any night sky, catch
all life’s eye. There’ll be no sun,
no moon, no constellation,
only us. Only me. We will burn
like a great signal fire screaming,
“We are here. We are here.”
