Maybe all this spinning has made the world go mad.
Spinning and circling and racing through space
to God-knows-where and where-knows-when.
In galactic galleries, stars are laughing
at us who think we’re on the ground.
Rolling around this anchor star;
a simple dance of stones and gasses
rung in the ring of wavelength song.
Here in the well, creatures crawl.
Uncountable ages of evolution
flash in the pan and are gone.
Bending toward the arms of Andromeda,
a billion years’ anticipation waits for that embrace.
You can no more safeguard galaxies
than you can the human race.
The universe may seem forever,
but sure as it banged, it will fail.
Through distances of apparent nothing,
magnificent catastrophe innocently waits
to swallow worlds alive.
Is it violence without volition,
or simply a last call for rhyme?
Maybe all this madness
has caused the world to spin,
and blindly race through space and time,
not caring where we’re going,
or knowing where we’ve been.