It is said we are born of stardust,
Elementally at least.
The carbon in us is out there too,
Shining when the sun goes to rest.
And when we die our elements
Head skyward and join the Heavens.
If we're lucky, to be part of a star.
But even there we cannot escape death,
Even stars must collapse and die,
Even if it's after millennia.
But, like our deaths becoming
Food for future light,
The elements of a dead star,
Maybe a little of us,
Scatter and form life anew.
Seems like death, more than the end,
Is the beginning of anything.
Carson Pytell is a poet living in a very small town in upstate New York. His work may be found or is forthcoming in such publications as Vita Brevis Press, Literary Yard, Leaves of Ink, Revolution John, Corvus Review, Gideon Poetry Review and Poetry Pacific.
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