Turn off the lights
and stop all the fights;
say that peace is no more -
for you can't lease
that which Death's currency
could somehow barter upon.

Such as this,
A blackened sphere.
A curse lifted,
Atlas hurls the weight
into the Void.
And the lunar reflection
casts into His eyes
as he reclines spinning,
spinning
some silver Failure.

No funeral,
no mourning -
the cycle of nature
has reclaimed Himself.

No terrestrial cries,
no twinkling stars upon
tears of happiness,
pools sorrow,
drops from dry eyes -
pollened and inflamed -
as the masses
before the Fall.

He sits relaxed
bathing in Sol's
radiant light,
warming his calloused,
blue hands,
instruments that had been
devoid of feeling for so long.

Upon his throne of crude
and industrial satellites,
Skyscraper crown
and duvet of oceans
turned to glass.

Zeus and the deities forgotten.
A whisper blown to the Tide
with the worship and their people.
But who could forget
that which held us for so long,
he who heard us
with a face unwillingly
drawn to infinity.

He who now plucks
Andromeda and Hercules,
and Pegasus and Pleiades
to weave roughly
for his stellar robework.

Juggling the master of Tide,
he questioned upon the deaf
celestial flow
why the barren pocked piece
was so bleak,
during peak of human power;
only impossibilities;
bitter excuses.

The Moon's sweet irony
of uninhabitance -
a pearl inside
Man's wide eyes
in times long passed.

Source of inspiration,
memorably forgotten.

The snake devouring
its own tail.