looking back

the pieces of my suffering

the sharp and raw edges of the way

i came to terms with my existence

of the way i am coming 

to terms

with the insignificance

carding through the hair 

of someone i could not know

and the universe does not give a damn who i have become

because the life i have come to know

is less important than i ever thought it could be

the smallness of my footprint

the lightness of my tread

are they different than any other being?

they are not

humanity and its life and nature and its life

they are barely rests in the symphony of sentience

and while i once thought i conducted my own music

it has become painfully clear that i merely stand 

across the street from the music hall

and inside a dilapidated building

from which i cannot even pray to hear

the strings vibrating