galactic eruption
interrupts a stroll down the memory lane
linear meta brain
meticulously performing the act of
self restraint
selfless worships
now, lesser in terms of quantitative hints
the never ending path
that circumvents the colourless
conscience
it contravenes the limitless scenes of a liberating regime
trust plummets into the hands of perceptive fiends
taken in
taken instead of countless numbered pills
a train of exaggerated kin
tracks back to those with highly assumed authorities
amidst the group of avid anti-socials
vividly varied in opinions
from a sword to a pin
essentially assembled to speak against the ancient ones
a neoteric synchronization
scaling screaming lexemes
the scathed silk screeches
soaked in acid  
flamed till the ashes can be smelled
but never seen
seemingly insignificant statements
covert and pristine

i have spent
many nights
gazing in wonder
at the night sky,
just as i have spent
many nights
loving you;
the universe dulls
in comparison.

We went barefoot
To the edges of where
The earth uprooted, and
Trees lay barren, with sand
tracks bearing testimony to a
Wretched depravity of time !
And we lay threadbare
In the cool April night,
Gazing upsky for hours,
Waiting in expectations,
For ñ elusive silverlight,
Of the fiery celestial might.
Of it's exhilarating approach,
and it's rapid tumultuous demise,
East onto west; upon the lunar sky.
And we wished to capture it, but
All that we could come up with,
Ws' an oak tree, in its wry solitude
Standing stolid, sly and slender
Mere spectator to the cosmos,
Yet, laughing at our fascination;
Of a lucid spectacle,
Which it did witness,
In its forlorn anomaly,
Innumerable instances
Of it's stoic incessant
Time.

To what kind of cosmos do I belong
And what pattern or value does it hold?
Among the nebulae and nova, strung upon the heavenly horizon
I see wonders and fearful conflicts arise and diminish
All the glory of light shatters the blank abyss
And stars I cannot behold are promised to be
Somewhere I may never tread
What kind of universe am I afloat within?
Does it know, or think, or care?
And what future has it in store for me
For sun and this pretty world?
Can it be a death, a memorial of glory dying?
Is it stretched to breaking point, and yearning to return to nothing?
Will it take me with it, on it's final journey?
As grey clouds mass gently above my brow
And drops caress my world with indifference
I wonder, about all things
And those that came before
Who gazed at skies and loved our moon
Who marveled at our star, yet feared it's wrath
And I ask myself
What difference does it make
Whether we were meant to be
Or whether we are not a thought?
Is this vastness a universe of despair
Where hope is vain and cruel
And unbridled power chooses planets and peoples?
Is this place so cold
Where there is no plan, no thought, no intention?
Are these hollow glories as cold as the barren planets
As empty as the lunar seas?
For if all is collide and collapse
And all patterns and platitudes meaningless and random
Then the greatest echo of the cosmos is sadness
Until all is no more
And time is spent and gone
Is it true?
Shall I weep for men, for earth, for stars?
What stays these tears?
It is the impossible, the unanswerable
The chorus of question and the fathom of joy
If this was meant to be
If light gives birth to life
And the universe gives birth to music
What more is to come?
There can be only one answer
Despair and destruction
Or design and deliverance
What do the stars tell me?
They whisper
A secret
They point the way

Sometimes stars explode
and leave behind the most
beautiful nebulae in the universe-
but that is one in a billion.
Somehow you create a nebula
with every touch,
and every word.
So what does that make you?

Nashville and Andromeda
by Michael R. Burch

I have come to sit and think in the darkness once again.
It is three a.m.; outside, the world sleeps . . .

How nakedly now and unadorned
the surrounding hills
expose themselves
to the lithographies of the detached moonlight—
******* daubed by the lanterns
of the ornamental barns,
firs ruffled like silks
casually discarded . . .

They lounge now—
indolent, languid, spread-eagled—
their wantonness a thing to admire,
like a lover’s ease idly tracing flesh . . .

They do not know haste,
lust, virtue, or any of the sanctimonious ecstasies of men,
yet they please
if only in the solemn meditations of their loveliness
by the ***** pen . . .

Perhaps there upon the surrounding hills,
another forsakes sleep
for the hour of introspection,
gabled in loneliness,
swathed in the pale light of Andromeda . . .

Seeing.
Yes, seeing,
but always ultimately unknowing
anything of the affairs of men.

Published by The Aurorean and The Centrifugal Eye

Keywords/Tags: Nashville, Andromeda, universe, cosmos, meditation, introspection, loneliness, alienation, pen, writing, night, darkness, sleep, moonlight, love, lover, affair, affairs, haste, lust, virtue, ecstasy, knowing, unknowing, aware, unaware, oblivious

We wake up on being called.
When you open your eyes in the morning,
listen to the voice inside.
The first thing that comes to you is
the sense of ‘I am’.
Isn’t it true?
It was consciousness’ voice
waking you up to a new creation.