Calm Down, Gautama:
the Escape is Eternal
I fabricate myself a Soul. It needs
Much less than what religions would impose.
This Soul of mine is limited. It heeds
My own creation, not the rows and rows
Of rules that random deities require.
Instead it recognizes that the death
Of things is universal. Every fire
Burns out. The largest star tholes smothered breath.
Intensity is not immortal in
This soul’s perfumes, its essences. My Soul
Is therefore brief like supernova sin.
Such bursts are not unceasing in their role.
Instead it is a tight, compacted dot
With every macrocosmic meaning fraught.