A breeze brushed against my skin softly flicking across a rib like the tip of a birds wing passing on by and the sun slowly began to sag into its cot.
I lay there thinking about the billions of stars that would never be seen by human eyes, what then of their beauty if never seen? What then of their legacy if never noted, named, or memorized?
Do they shine without a receiver, with no nerve to catch their display? Or are they just beautiful anyway?
And what of the child who leaves this earth alone, no mother searching because she knows he’s gone. Tucked away in a damp shallow grave, without marker, without rose. Did he live at all in the big picture or was he gone before he was born? Dismissed as burden. Its a shame we feel, but is it really so numbingly insignificant? What would make him real but a kiss from his mother, or the tear she bore for his loss or just the prayer said by another.


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