You are not the stuff of which you are made.

Every atom that was

ever present

in your

seven-year-old self

is no longer inside you;

matter flows,

plants grow:

waste is shed

into plant bed.

'That was me,' you say

as you look at an

image of

your child self.

That was never you

and never again will

a child

bear those same atoms.

You are merely

an embellished version

of an earlier 

flavour of you,

containing different atoms;

and a different-structured brain

that changes every minute -

yet you're much like everyone else.

The universe is

more queer

than one might ever imagine,

and it's 

beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.