It seems like my inner universe keeps crumbling
All the bright constellations whirling and
Centering into a vortex
Around one merciless planet;
And it only takes so long before stars that
Looked like Tolkien's Earendil implode.
There seems to be no beauty at all.
But explosions of coruscating fire
Can be beautiful, too -- light so cosmic
That it's too brilliant to be tolerated close up.
There might still be an Earendil that
Survives from that disintegration, and I
Won't see the radiance until a refracted comet
Of leftover fire scintillates across my sky
And then I'll know,
And then I'll remember,
And then I'll smile,
And then I'll thank
The Maker of my internal galaxies
For piecing them back together again.