In the land of lines and clutter, where the shapes go to sleep,
Thereโs a ruckus, a jumble, where the dark and light do creep.
A yellow blob in the middle, a sun, or a daisy, maybe,
Stuck right there with nowhere to go, crazy.
The leaves, they aren't leaves, just spots of a void,
Scattered around like the dreams of Freud.
Some soft pink here, a whisper of red,
A secret message, or just something that bled.
Cubes and bars and all kinds of geometry,
Thrown together, a salad of astronomy.
Love doing nothing, just hanging around,
In a universe thatโs flat, where itโs bound to be found.
Vonnegutโs eye, with a squint and a sigh,
Would chuckle and scribble, and simply imply:
โHere we are, folks, in the gallery of space,
Where love lazes in idleness, with a peculiar grace.
otoalchemist
