Life, Death, and Existence: A Poetic Journey Through the Cosmos and Self

Void

In the beginning, there was no beginning—
a slumbering emptiness that could not dream,
a static hum that refused to sing.
No edges, no center, no rules—
a vacuum not of space but of thought,
pregnant with the absence of light.
The void is not black, nor white.
It is the sound of clocks that will never tick,
a banquet table where nothing ever sat.

I

I am the fracture in the mirror,
the ghost in the glass pretending to be whole.
A question draped in skin,
a trembling sentence missing its period.
I wear masks over masks,
peeling each one away to find another—a kaleidoscope of selves.
Do I think, or am I thought?
Do I breathe, or am I exhaled by a machine I do not understand?
"I" is a story I write in sand
while the tide sharpens its teeth behind me.

You

You, who are not me, yet are my shadow.
A stranger with my name written in your veins,
your heartbeat an echo of mine,
your breath like the wind that rattles my spine.
You are the infinite horizon of another’s gaze—
a shape I can never hold,
an equation I will never solve.
Do you exist beyond my perception?
Are you a mirror, or are you the moon?
Who are you, when I close my eyes?

Universe

The universe is a symphony in chaos,
a musician with strings made of gravity and silence.
Galaxies spin like restless dancers
who do not know the steps,
yet every stumble forms a pattern.
Stars bleed light into nothingness,
dying to illuminate a cosmos that cannot care.
Time is the metronome, ticking wildly,
dragging us forward into corners we cannot see.
A joke without a punchline,
a riddle where the answer has long since burned out.

Life

Life is the heartbeat of a seed cracking open.
It is the defiance of green against grey,
the absurdity of lungs insisting on air.
It is your first cry and your last breath,
and all the spaces in between
where you dance, stumble, rise, and fall.
Life is a painter with no canvas,
throwing colors into the void,
hoping they stick.
It is chaos in harmony,
a garden planted in ash,
a song hummed by the bones of ancestors you never met.

Death

Death walks barefoot through your dreams,
its footsteps leaving no mark.
It wears no face, no cloak,
but the weight of its absence presses on your chest.
A door that opens without warning,
a question you answer by vanishing.
Death is not the opposite of life;
it is its punctuation—
sometimes a period,
sometimes an ellipsis.
It is not cruel, not kind,
just quiet.
Its shadow is the canvas on which life paints itself bold.

Existence

Existence is a paradox wrapped in flesh and stardust.
To exist is to question existence,
to teeter on the edge of knowing and not knowing.
It is the hum of atoms colliding in chaos
and the stillness of a thought unspoken.
A thread unraveling even as it weaves itself tighter.
What are we, but matter that wonders why it matters?
Existence is the shadow of something greater,
or perhaps the shadow itself.
It is both the flame and the wick,
burning for no reason at all.

All Together

The void gave birth to I.
I met You, and in our meeting, we saw the Universe.
Life surged forward, defying reason,
while Death whispered in its ear.
Existence pulled it all together,
a cosmic jigsaw missing half its pieces.
And still, we marvel,
not because we understand,
but because we are.

#LifeAndDeath #ExistentialPoetry  #CosmicMusings #PhilosophicalReflections #PoetryOfBeing #ExistenceExplored #AbstractWriting