Dying early

We do not dispute a  thinly veiled existence ,
His dying at early age , a tongue sticking out
After a previous night's stars of many finger
Pointings towards a sky-dome of  ancient stars
By a little finger spanning millennia of space
 Light years of endless time as vacant space
 Measured out in parcels of tiny square feet
Like the little boy-god under  a palm umbrella
 Whose smiling feet stretched to the infinity
 On a softly egotistical underworld king-head.

 He had lived  here on loosely strung nights.
 Who are we that will  some day cease to be, 
To assert his existence under the flickering
Stars he had pinpointed next to his own wall
And who are we to pity him for an early death
With some blue years yet left to his balance?
We do not even know if the gods loved him.

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