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If time were human
would it want to hold on
for eternity?
Would it grasp for
the stars knowing of
their inevitable fate?
With vast sums of hours
for hands grabbing into
tenebrous obscurity.
A comet’s tail slipping
through it’s minuted fingers
while running late.

If space were human would
it feel self-conscious about
forever growing in size?
Would it count asteroids
instead of calories
to reduce it’s weight?
Other universes and planetary nebulae pointing and whispering about
it’s belly being bigger than it’s eyes.
Trying not to show off
it’s favourite cascading multicoloured
galaxies in order to placate.

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Stuck in an orbiting, far-away rut
somewhere along the Milky Way
synapses resembling stardust
each trajectory a threaded fray.

An umbilical cord unravelled, cut
and used to climb down into space
downtrodden by an intergalactic foot
satellites pulling at the cosmos’ lace.

The book of time will no longer shut
and there’s no finish line to the race
trapped in an orbit without any luck
fortune has roundly forsaken the brave.

Celestial hands on quills are taken, took,
and handwritten upon Andromeda’s grave…

The epitaph reads,

“Your shining pluck
of courage swirled around us, and, saved
many a sinner’s soul from being stuck,
betwixt vast nothingness and spacial slave,
but, was lost on matterless knaves who don’t give a fuck.
Creatively you birthed new worldly waves,
white horses’ prisms surfed as we shook,
stars walked the plank, plinth and staves,
the midnight skies couldn’t creep or snuck,
from your twilight masterpieces, engraved.”

© poormansdreams

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