by Philip F De Pinto
All the warmth up there
merits a lonely man's stare
The plethora of galaxies in space
given to wild goose chase
What are astronomers to make of all the stars?
Has the universe gone too far?
Sprawling more than suburbs ever could
And God said it was good!
A poet sighs
to see pale skies
Sick with blood letting
So much light trapped in a jeweler's setting
Posted on 06/04/2022
Copyright © 2022 Philip F De Pinto
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 06/04/22 at 03:45 PM|
Good to read you again Phil! Fascinating take on the universe.
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 06/13/22 at 06:00 PM|
Philip - so good to read you again and know that couplets become you in this cosmic poem. Great use of the word "sprawling" and I really like that intriguing last line.
|Posted by Laura Doom on 06/23/22 at 05:40 PM|
In sickness as in health, we are bound to exist in this limitless phantasmagoria. A pleasure to ingest your exquisitely pared pairs.
|Posted by Nadia Gilbert Kent on 06/27/22 at 07:28 PM|
The most unsettling and simultaneously comforting part about infiniteness as a concept, to me, is the fact that somewhere an endpoint exists who may be firing back into the abyss you're sitting in.