Space Chronicles, IV

Never again an intangible whisper in the dusk, or on the breeze of night

“Let us rave on about love and poetry while understanding nothing of what they are – stolen pieces of someone else’s lives, the concerns of oblivious others, their passions covered in breadcrumbs and fried.

Let me be the yardstick that measures the distance between your words and your actions.

Let me sit in the dark, at my industrial desk covered in two dots of moon dust, composing, playing the piano keys with the tips of my imagination and depressingly reflect on the antagonizing torture that is being the circus for those who possess everything but a purpose, so by default nothing.

While the bread sits at the table, I take on a chair backwards and inquire my love, why is it that today I woke up and didn’t love you enough anymore?

I’ve been in love with my music, but she depresses me. She beats me high and bemol, as if she doesn’t care since she does not, and I am left the infuriating puppy who keeps coming back for more.

Of love and poetry man knows nothing, I conclude, and of science even less. We can all run to another world but we cannot run from our own emptiness that reflects the cosmos-

For we are so focused on the stars we forget most of the universe is actually made out of what isn’t there, the dark matter, the nothing.

Just like the universe we are hollow-

And my fuel is being broken hearted, for the lost blood is the ink I write with.”