Opaque black orbs of a material unfathomed
Of make and origin transcendent,
In city streets, more labyrinths, they’re shining
but the napless, noxious light can’t make them suns.
In a manner of speaking, they’re dead,
Mere Hollow spheres, once filled with dreams
Now embrace each other to form grotesque
constellations that can never hope to join the stars.
For time and breath of a loved friend
Has smoothed heart and dulled soul alike,
How not unlike a carapace most words now are
And living, stone or dust are but the same.
Alas, there is none, with angles, blurred contours,
Illusory perception of a world in order,
Where vast horizons touch to join two voids together
But fabled sweet destruction fizzles into a tear.
The huge and hulking discs throw meager shadows
An ant can’t find a place to sleep,
So hungry is the tribe of reflective planets,
That they have sunk their teeth into infinity.