Cosmic Tears

Space is black, but it contains all the cosmic rays.
Oxygen is absent in its largest extent, but oxygen is part of its being.
Somewhere, oh Universe, you cry for the stardust that rests on Earth
in the form of the depleted and depreciated human soul.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
the darkness burns deep in the fearful thighs
that run from fate
and into a state
of servitude to the feelings that they create.
And the Universe is crying.
The nebula drips like a heavenly tear
for me and for you.

Atoms are universes of their own.
The electrons orbit the holy nucleus,
and by one split in the nuclear core,
the caves of the land will spilt
offering no more adventure.
If we kill ourselves,
we kill the hope for the future.

The stars of the skies are lonely.
I’ve noticed that now.
From our human land with our human hearts we make them seem to be so close to each other as we cling to their neo-burlesque exhibition,
but the truth is that they are intensely alone separated eons in time from their celestial partners,
but are they nonetheless glorious?
The greatest things in life can hardly be loved,
so we bury the bodies, and they pray for peace above.

The Divine paints his picture upon the night sky.
A shooting star is falling.
The comet is always in downwards gravitation as it penetrates with fire time and location,
and here it comes falling into our dimension
lonely, lonely as all great things,
but I wonder if it views the absence of companionship as loneliness
and is really sad.

The Divine gathered the soil of the homeland
and formed the human to be like the place from which it came
fertile and receptive. Oh Cosmic Sun,
do you still remember the souls you’ve made?
Here we lie amidst the dirt from which we emerged
on the only planet with life
between an infinite encompassment of light-years of asphyxiating midnight.

Are we greater than all-mighty Jupiter? He is a dead god. We are more ambitious than Mars.
And our women are more beautiful than Venus who is hot fire and untouchable.
A man is his own cosmos, and he can be lonelier than Pluto away from the center of his loves.
Space is mostly black, but it incorporates all the cosmic rays.
Isn’t it the same with the human soul?

Maybe the Universe cries for us and sends its meteoric monsoons and melancholic lunar grandeur,
so that the madrigals in our human hearts will know love once again
and unite with each other in polyphonic texture ,
so that the living can live of truth.

The stars alone in their neon splendor
tear us apart from the mainstream world,
so that we can be stars among stars
and a silver piece of nebula
with one another.
And then, we create the concept of self.
Now why would we abhor the thing we created?
The Universe cries for its beloved microcosm
and God who we are like who is like us.