it's cute you think i matter,
that i am part of some cosmic neutrality
that still finds the will to exist--
or, part of some orbiting nebulus,
some glowing seahorse of pastels
that finds you as its nucleus.

it shouldn't be anger, it should be some
maladjusted beauty, some night terror
that found you when you were a baby.
you shook your tiny fist, and the terror
loosed dreams of love into your blood.

i matter, you matter, we are all matter
except the dreams. your narrative is
carbon-based, swamp-dwelling,
born of men and to a man it was told.
so take the organic terror with you now,
hold it dear along your path,
and find a way to force the phantasm
to bend its will for iron, for salt, for blood.