Cog

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What a tiny cog I am in this great celestial machine, spinning and whirling amidst a hurricane of trillions of stars. What a fragile little soul, flickering in my tiny world above the clay and the copper and the iron, a flame half as bright as the last dying ember of coal in the cold furnace. 

I dance here in the whirlwind below a thousand million swirling spheres of iridescent flames. I dance here, one of trillions of fragile little soul-fires, some red and impotent with rage, some pure and white-hot with sacrifice. 

Here I dance, dancing to make myself hotter, dancing till I am made even greater than the great swirling explosions in the sky, dancing till I am made even greater than the powerhouses of His enormous celestial machine.


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