Underneath the icy sun
desolation tends
to maximise serenity
And even after a million
supernovas veer posthoumosly
into a dignified
stupor
You are let to live amidst
the wayward responsibilities of
creating theoratical
lifeforms out of the
galactic rubbles
And then, from precisely that era
onwards, you start to think
somebody else should have been
cursed enough to inherit
the mantle of
god.
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