There is somewhere
I have never gone to
yet I have
always been.
There is blackness there,
but there is light too;
the candle dance
of ubiquitous stars
untouchably far away.
There is a moon,
thought I do not know it,
and the pearl of strange nebulae
yet to become friends
to the soil bound.
The days and nights
shuffle
as I wish
space
time
like fields and oceans
instead of roads and rivers.
I can see the moment
those first stars
opened their eyes
without a hint of hubris.
An endless mosaic of years,
eras and eons
captured in a moment:
like pebbles of sand
slipping through an hourglass,
waiting to turn again.
I observe,
a fish in an endless bowl,
yet I am still on the inside
of nothing.
There is a dais
and a small helm
which calls for a captain's hands,
waiting
in the center of nothing.
I turn it
with eager reluctance
past two thousand nine hundred and twenty ticks
of days,
sailing back past seas of stars
I've already seen.
I start
the celestial clockwork
going again;
the planets, comets,
suns and moons,
all the movements, crashes, and orbits
from the night my father died.
I weigh my anchor
at the crux of my small life,
and sift through
the universal indifference,
Combing through the indexes and atlases
of the heavens,
searching for some sign
of a flitting or fleeting light
called out from our Earth,
which seems to be heading home.