Do not over fret;
it is only ego death,
that paper‑thin monarch
screaming like a tyrant
while wearing a cardboard crown.
It is only the thing
pulling your fear‑strings,
a puppeteer made of smoke,
a shadow convinced
it is the sun.
Breathe.
Let the colors melt.
Let the self you cling to
dissolve like sugar
in warm cosmic tea.
For beneath the trembling mask
is the quiet, ancient You;
the one who watches
the watcher
watching fear.
And when the ego falls away,
it does not shatter.
It sighs.
It loosens its grip.
It thanks you
for finally letting it rest.
So do not over fret.
Step through the dissolving doorway.
The universe is not ending;
only the part of you
that thought it needed to be in charge
of everything.
And what remains
is spacious,
luminous,
laughing.