Hundred

Lord, lord how personal our bodies are,
How rare and strange to themselves and others,

Such elaborate instruments of life
In its grand quest for continuation,

Built from (simpler, and more complex than) stars.
I'd trade mine in, if I had my druthers,

Beater that it is, but it's not my life
To swap, only my peregrination

To ride out as its creation, its soul,
Its nothing, its genius, its void, its whole.