Such as the Stars

The fire sings its siren
Flames crackle low.
The sweet tinkle of the coals
Shimmering.
Beckoning.
Close as my skin will bear.

It sounds like the northern lights
And reminds me of when
I used to speak to the stars.

Don’t sleep, they’d say.
There’s too much,
Too much to see.

And I’d see the universe,
As an atom,
And the coals akin to the aurora.
And I am as big
And as small
As anything
And nothing.
Whatever there ever was.

The stars would wink,
The northern lights dance
And the coals
Murmur their congratulations,
Mesmerizing.
Baptizing.
Burning me with purity.

I sit back, singed.
My skin flushed and punishing
Me, warning me
Not to commune with such as the stars.

Lest I combust,
I must
Be satisfied to wonder.

The Point

Revelatory!
Catastrophe!
As scientists proselytized.

At the end
We transcend!

But...

Will story survive?

And what? 
Will hear it, read it, understand, enjoy?

And if poetry, song and story goes, then what is the point?
And what is the point of answering that?
And what is the point of the asking?

And all of these points on a porcupine hide
With all that there is in its guts
And everything else
Outside of his self

He ambles on,
Inside of it all
In spite of it all.

As one.
As all.
As the point.