Heavens do not die

Good evening, pretty, what say you this glorious day?
You and your majestic globe move rather slowly each night in the twilight.
Often I feel minor and afraid.
You serve to remind me of the levity of life, among other things.
And when I feel alone, it is but a guess at your solitude.
You seem so minute, like a drop of white drizzle on an otherwise static screen.
But you've the omniscient eyes.
You are formed of the same substance as I.
Though it is of no consequence, I'm sure.
You never doubt nor waver.
And your perception of myself is broader than I could imagine.
You must tell me, how is it that you are not alive?
For I sense greater life in you than in the dense thicket of this ocean orb.

...

My life follows the different course of the sky and it persists nonetheless.
You must tell me, how do you feel to be the living?
I speak with you and watch over you through the day and night.
You always sit and listen.
Though it is of no consequence, I'm sure.
You are formed of the same substance as I.
But your vision dies with time.
You seem so remote, like a fleck of black on a dizzy tumble of rock and liquid.
When I feel unloved, I simply observe all the upward eyes.
You serve to remind me of the brevity of life, as you flicker by.
I often feel large and lonely.
You and your little wandering feet move so quickly over so tender a place.
Good midnight, my small friend, are you still afraid?