Temple of my body, desecrated, desperate.

Nothing holy lives here. Here, nothing is alive. 

In sleep, I know emptiness, definite and infinite, and I 

wonder: will it be like this when I am no longer alive?

I now understand how stars die, the black holes that are their

legacy. But even to begin with, the stars were never alive.

It is night, and the moon is singing silver, silver, silver, and I clutch 

my crumpled sheets and whisper, when, when will I stop being alive?

Church of my bones, psalms silvered into marrow. Perhaps,

something holy lives here. Here, maybe, something is alive.

Smiles of stained glass, hymns of scarred wood and 

light, resurrection voices singing, He is risen, He is alive!

I now understand how stars are birthed, the flames that are their 

future. And even when I doubted, they were always, always alive.

It is day, and the sun is singing salvation, salvation, salvation, and I 

kneel on damp grass and whisper, thank you, thank you that I am alive.