I sit taciturn and wondering, waiting for the universe
to take my shaking hand into her further infinity.
I see the connected constellations, ostentatious
as they are, splashes and arcs of light tessellating
into the galaxy’s tender motion and sleepy staccato,
Falling fast within this midnight sky so consummate.
Now I won’t admit into being also consummate,
Not in the physique of this elegant universe.
My body is made of mere stardust staccato
ravelling tightly into a quite beautiful infinity.
Yet I shall admit defeat unto death, tessellating
into a parasitic decay non so ostentatious.
We all wish to enter the gates of Heaven, ostentatious
as humans get. We are quite passionate and consummate
with our concepts arranged into a stained-glass tessellation,
Ignoring still the vast reaches withheld in the universe
and thinking that this small orbit of ours is all that’s infinity,
Earning us a mindset of broken glass and fragmented staccato.
Truly, our planet is a zealous one, of cobalt and viridian tessellation,
Pieced together, and yet barely holding on, our divinity ostentatious.
Our sea levels and stretched firmament seem to reach infinity
up to our all-knowing Mother, her opalescent gown consummate,
But then again, she is just another dress in this party of the universe
Her descrying jade heart pulsating and flatlining into faintest staccato.
And materialistic, we resolutely remain, technology tessellating,
Preaching with arguing high voices, radioing into noisy black staccato.
Pray must we, for help. Ask forgiveness to the spinning universe
for we have been too indulged getting severely pompously ostentatious.
And soon, no longer will she ever care, for she is a goddess consummate
with her rarities. A powerful chromatic angel donning white wings of infinity.
We drown all our self-abnegation in a shallow turbid pool of falsified infinity,
But look up to the astral skies, you fools, and see the stars’ bright tessellation!
We can nevermore achieve the paramount gracefulness of being consummate,
for we are mere scintilla specks floating in space. Barely even a borrowed staccato
that’s vainglorious, ruffling our colourful feathers. Now cease ostentation,
Breathe in the sun…do you feel that slightest twinge of cosmic angst from the universe?
I whisper but echoing souls, cut into philosophical tessellation, and cast into evaporation. I might as well be speaking staccato,
but the patient universe hears my every cry, and gifts me some of her onyx satin habiliment. I accept humbly, non ostentatiously
so I see clearly finally. Wherefore must we humans be so dragged into consummate? This life is not a question of perfection, but rather, what we choose to do with our own infinity.∞