Sometimes I feel like
The Andromeda galaxy,
A collection of millions of suns
And billions of planets
Falling into itself
While simultaneously
Exploding outward
Every which way
It pleases.
I’ll be like Andromeda
For a bit
Before becoming
Milky Way,
Just another
Million suns
And
Billion planets
All jumbled around
And bound to die
In this life
Or
The next,
Spiraling out of control
Tightening,
Expanding,
Imploding,
Exploding.
They say we’re all made up of
Star dust.
Perhaps that old adage
Could explain
My spiraling brain.
Maybe obsession
Is just a leftover relic
From the golden age
Of nebulae,
A simple spiraling caricature
Of the universe itself.
Maybe obsession is its own
Tiny universe.
Maybe I’m just crazy.
Who gives a shit anyway?
We spiral
And
Spiral
And
Spiral
And find ourselves
Right
Back where we started.
Maybe obsession is just
A symptom of being
In a world where there’s so much
To obsess over.
Maybe obsession is just
Our own inevitable downfall
That gets us nowhere.
Maybe I’m just trying
To be some damn old poet
Trying to make sense of
My damn old poet brain.
Trying.
Trying.
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