eloquence

The Pharaoh's Serpent writhes The comet makes its rounds A dead star is born, all fired up A furnace, a machine

Dead light reflects dead images In Titan's lakes of methane Red lava flows, incinerates All that has never been

Dead rain, dead storm, dead lightning Pounding, raging, striking! Replication A new sensation Life holds us in its thrall We're destined to be dead matter Which may not be dead at all

Electrons don't dream and don't wonder To know beauty requires a mind And the particles of experience Are probably far behind But charge and mass and spin May still be emotion's kin And the light of your life, while special Once beamed as dead potential A glimmer of love within.

— Erik Moeller, public domain