You are the sun,
Calling lowly to the galaxy,
Tragic and celestial,
40 billion light years from the closest star,
And the moon rings like a bell;
Earthquake vibrations across the vacuum of space,
Echoes roll over your skin, just whispers of what once was,
Like a house that has already been burned down,
Alarm still shrieking into the shell
That this is danger,
This is living,
But the moon is too far to hear a warning over
the bell tolls,
An angelus to Sirius and Orion and
Pyxis,
And the sun is farther still, drowning in a sea of silent stars,
Baying softly of loneliness and terror to the empty night,
I am the moon,
You, the sun.
In the end, we are all just houses,
Waiting to be burned down.