(Originally written/drafted August 2008)
He told you about his Ptolemaic system,
On the ledge,
Trying to centre the world,
Within his world view again,
An un-shift not carrying for one,
In the equations bottom line.
He told you he’s flat-earthed,
From a place where there be dragons,
That he is Atlas-manning the last outposts,
Of this absurdly heavy world.
He told you the story of a world,
Created through accretions of a heavy mass stellar potential,
Says that he has spent a billion years,
Shuffling decks of cards,
Mixing recipes of acid burns,
To make proteins come good,
On an old promise.
He says he’s waiting,
A middle man for the cosmos,
A dancer in a nebula,
Foot printing species into fruition,
Then waiting in the wings,
For them to spread their wings.
Oh, he’s spun stories,
Revolving around echoes of silent lights,
In a fifteen-billion-year nighttime,
Says that he has swallowed each sunrise a thousand times,
For every thousand times,
He’s been looked at.
And he claims,
He is the night sky above,
So he really can see the stars,
When he looks into your eyes,
He has told you all of this,
And you know,
He’s waiting for you to look up and return his gaze,
To share in his alleged star light.
He’s told you the whole story,
But you don’t look up,
And you’re yet to tell him,
Whether or not you actually believe any of this.