James Gale

My atoms do not belong together.
They push, pull, and break—
all my cells divided,
existence being the topic of late.

Neurons still fire,
out of contempt or even spite.
They make all thoughts eerie,
restless echoes in this drifting mind.

We are all made of stardust,
the infinite universe trapped within.
Then why does being alive feel so limited?
Sentient—but to what end?

An individual,
capable of wondrous thought—
the most gruesome hoax:
thoughts, they matter not.

Staying alive has straightforward rules,
but thriving, being happy,
depends on nothing—
but remaining a fool.

My atoms are screaming.
Every cell is at war.
Only separating them forever
will settle the universe’s vicious score.