Oh, how heavy a heart must be,
alone, adrift in some sea.
The only direction lives in the black,
giving names to the stars,
as if they are the new gods.
Forever still and unmoving
as the single constant,
in a world of crashing currents,
from this sea, to the plates under the pavement,
that the greatest cities are built upon.
And even still it is only the photograph,
which lovers name after each other,
and sailors follow home.
These new gods are dead at first imagining,
as all gods before and those yet to come.
Their light defying their demise for millions of years,
to give a look back in time.
Though one must still live, in the present,
a last survivor against the vaccum of space and time,
burning up to the heavens, as Rilke wrote.
And so it is this hope that something lives on,
amongst the burnt out graveyard,
that weighs upon the heavy heart.
As it recognizes the universal inevitability of an end,
but can't help to think otherwise.