Movement toward future. Dance not in the center, but on an arm of the spiral. I spin for myself, and hope that gravity attracts wayward seeds to me. Miracles …
The galac-sea tosses ships and sentiments upon celestial sediment. The premise of my longing metastasized through these promises. A nebula of lust and want. Will flowers grow here?
pleasure. At the center of swirling void, a solitary beacon sits. The stars oscillate. Bright moments from long ago dot the sky. I connect them to you.
the planets dance in something like measured ecstasy. Shuffling feet and speeding stars each contain a drop of joy, and to drink deep is the finest
spinning, unending and unbeginning, constant toil with nary a thought marks the beauty of our milky way. Each system works upon the other, and even
They coil and uncoil ceaselessly ’round the firmament. The cosmic springs wind themselves. Are we but dust caught in the great machine’s cogs? Whirring,
If the universe be but a gem, in which fractal are we now persevering? What galactic snakes have wormed their way to power?
to infinite facets by the play of light’s keen razors and time’s looping phases. A blue ripple stretches, reflecting endlessly. Stellar grin.
Moonlight and streetlamps illumine the slow whorl of time, while hungry shadows stretch to encase them. The jewel sits, radiant, cut
and slow. The great gravemaw yawns in silence, in chaos, in noise, in peace, and its measured mastication doesn’t cease.