Themes are all we have, in this rhyme of stars:
opaque windows on the vastness
bestowed by consciousness.
Their creators, we, have illusions of the grandiose
and the infinitesimally small, nay, nothing,
but no sense of whether wake or dream.
It’s as though we cast a spell
and a curse
was granted:
we see
but we can never understand.
©HeyHey 2019
