We are our own universe,
made inside the furnaces of exploding stars.
That is more profound to me than clay.
Clay is of this earth, bound by gravity
to this tiny speck of dust.
We are more than that,
we are made of suns.
We don’t just live within the universe,
the universe lives within us.
Let that starlight out,
let the universe know we’re here
and that we’re good,
we’re kind,
we’re worth having around,
we’re deserving of our place here,
we’re gentle
and calm
and happy
and loving.

We are more than the sum of our parts,
more than empty vessels of atoms,
more than hateful,
war-mongering little creatures.
We have hearts that beat
to a rhythm the universe provides.
We are our own gods,
our own devils,
our own sacrifices
and our own dreams.
The universe is waiting with open arms
to welcome back its lost children.
We are the universe observing itself subjectively.
Put on a show worth watching. 
In a way, this reminds me of the line, "Yes, we too are stardust" from the excellent novel on the history of philosophy, Sophie's World. I have no astute criticisms to offer this time around, and I have heard some of the same notions touched upon in the past, but it's just good to read something like this once in a while. It just hits the "awww, shucks!" button in a way, especially in the ending couplet. Maybe if my classes had gone poorly today, I'd be more cynical. Ah well. Good work!
I am a fake mountain.
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