The stars caress us
in the sleep of space.
Pluto is pocked with craters,
Charon orbits sagely galloping
around the sights and sounds of a spurned world.
Verily I say: where do we go
amidst the vibrating hums of ghosts
left behind to amuse us?
They are so thin,
but we feed their bellies
with the icy twinkle of our eyes.
Correspondences between things
make no sense in a world that needs no sense,
needs no chaos,
needs no order.
We exist frozen,
with our burns cooled,
our deaths distant.
Science and superstition have no meaning
in this pyramid beneath the stars.
Colors drift behind specters,
hallucinations drift in and out of reality:
who are we?
Do we care, or listen to the hum
of our admirers?
The heart leaps
and water is liberated
flowing through the tunnels
of our veins
to our sky-drowned brains.
It is miles to the nearest tree,
in a grove we stepped down from
cutting the ropes of our wisdom
that leaves scars on our necks.