What We Become

I am made of stardust,

born of a mother who is not one but many,

the mother who is matter, motion, mystery,

who took form in the fire of creation

and cradled me before I knew myself.

 

Before I was born, I was nothing—a breath yet unbreathed,

a thought before thought,

floating in the silent darkness where time has no face,

where birth and death are the same dance,

where I and you and all that ever was

are spun in an endless unfolding.

 

Is death the edge of everything?

Or only a doorway, an opening we do not yet see?

They say energy is never created, never destroyed—

and so I wonder,

will I be here again, not as I am, but as I was,

a scattering of electrons, a slant of light,

a pulse through a body not yet born?

 

The mother I return to has no arms, no eyes,

and yet she holds everything.

She is the hum beneath every heartbeat,

the silence that fills each breath,

the dust that settles and rises in light.

She is the arc of the universe itself,

and in her presence, nothing is ever truly lost.

 

What am I then, but a current, a momentary wave

rising and falling back into the vast ocean,

a spark from the same eternal fire that gives and takes,

spins and releases, only to return?

 

To die, perhaps, is to slip from one side of the veil

and reappear on the other,

to sleep and wake without memory, without fear,

to dissolve, and in dissolving,

to become everything that ever was and will be.

 

If I am part of all that is,

then death is only a transformation,

a rearrangement of stars and light,

a letting go of form

to become the infinite itself.