by Ryan Walraven
You are an irregular spiral galaxy.
Not just a plain-jane whirlpool of stars,
some twirling showoff who spins fire from her arms,
but an anomaly –
a chaotic mess of dust and spiraling limbs.
Like Shiva, you spin and dance through life,
careening across the universe with wild abandon,
the destroyer of worlds.
Star systems arc from inside you like sparks,
screaming as you push them away,
Why? Where did it go wrong? You worked so well together.
Yet still, nebulae swirl around your periphery,
always eager to get inside,
past your filaments and clouds –
those grey shrouds, lit up like thunderheads,
hinting at dark secrets within, and something else.
Some cream and azure illumination,
clutch and hugged to your core,
where new worlds are born like careless ideas
and planets are flung into the void,
still warm from the nurturing furnace of your imagination.
There is a force that strings all this together –
there must to be – there has to be
more than just gravity,
more than mere momentum.
Like spider-threads invisible in the night,
this dark lace holds your arms aloft as you spin,
clutches the globular nebulae close to your core.
It bring a fiercer, burning energy to your belly button,
that hub where new stars burn forth,
and we can’t help looking,
scanning your whirling form,
peering with out telescopes outside your window
Yes, I’m sure,
there *is* a dark force that holds all this together,
but no one knows what it is, it’s true.
The philosophers are baffled,
their whispers barely concealed.
You hide your secrets well,
away from the wide-eyed telescopes,
away from me,
but I can’t stop thinking about you.
© Ryan Walraven 2015