This is my love letter to Brian Cox. Ha. No really, this is one for all the science lovers out there who think that fact really is far more miraculous than fiction.

I don’t need a God,

I’m made of stardust,

of lust flowing from billions of atoms

that conspired, to have me sired.

I am huge, I’m a giant,

reliant on the dance of numberless bosons and quarks.

Their quantum larks shape my dreams.

Streams of particles expelled by the sun,

now on the run across space and time,

helped make you and me,

somehow set us free

as consciousness borne of impossible odds.

What lucky sods we are.

So let’s not mar the miracle of our existence with pretence.

What need for a God?

The wonder is here in our being,

in our seeing, in our thoughts.

They came from nought and here,

13.8 billion years on, are these words.

It’s absurd that all this emerged in a moment

from something so small, it hardly existed at all.

All energy and matter, most of the latter

still a dark mystery, expanding through history,

leaving us in its wake.

A happy mistake?

It’s hard to take in, the scale of it all,

I’m so infinitesimally small.

I’m minute, an irrelevant pinprick

nicking the skin of eternity,

to witness such magic and beauty.

A mere ripple on the surface of existence,

we laugh, we dance in the face of chance.

One day all that makes up our love

will return to the sky above,

stretching beyond the visible.

It’s risible just how very trivial we are,

but we are made from the stars.