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.