Supernova

There's a house I pass
on the journey home, pink glaze,
most of them are in Suffolk,
at least those worth gazing inside,
giving tale to faceless life.
I picture you,
a vaultless soul
birthing planets, swallowing Moons,
turn tides in the larynx
overcome
with alien whispers.
A mandolin is played by an angelic sprite
resting light on a shelf,
as another phase of you
shifts through to haunt the hall.
I'll reverse,
traverse another cartographer's mind,
romanticise regiment,
stabilise on routine,
and then sometimes,
though infrequently,
hear strings
and softened galaxies.