Sunday, April 30, 2006



When I was eight
Our father brought home a galaxy
For us to keep and care for

It was a young thing
Full of dust, stars and glory
Big enough to bear us
As it flew across the fields
Outside of our estate

If you leaned in close to it
And closed you eyes and held your breath
You could heard the radio whisper
Of newly born civilizations

At night it would hover near the ceiling
Turning slowly, stately, serenely
Making the night a friendly thing

We were told to feed it
Three ounces of finely ground dirt and hydrogen
Twice a day and once at night
To give it precisely seven clockwise swirls
To wash out any excess nebulae
At least once a week (sometimes more)
And most importantly
To sing soft songs to its societies

And we were good to it
So very good to it
At first, but not at last

As our attentions wandered
It's edges grew thick and uneven
It's stately swirls merged and blurred
And its worlds fell into silence
One by one by one

Father finally took it away
To a place where they put it down
And the night, forever more
Was cold, quiet, and lonely

Photo courtesy of "justasungod"

No comments:

what is this?

Tell me when this blog is updated. . .