Have we moved from it?
The tiny pieces of the love we swore we had?
I had not known of such a terrible event such as our own,
and our timing was just right.
I had always left the light on, and the door open.
I thought fondly upon memories of the future that we gave up our last stretch of life to.
I wondered if it was hopes, or real memories we live out.
A memory that flashes into notes and glittering auras.
I once sat on Saturn, and so privileged, to sit on the day the Black Holes Disappeared.
A glorious day, indeed.
Though, without you, there are no black holes.
Never knowing that the black holes were once vessels of which we spoke through.
Poking holes through the atmosphere, and reached out to feel around for a feeling we knew wasn't close enough.
Ripped through the stomach of the sky, where we finally met the Greater Obsidian Moon, and transcended into ages where we seared through trees, and dug through the branch.
I went from a hot, hot Southern, ghostly sun to a Western wringing, writhing sun. Through, venture North, and you'll see a dancing sun.
Anything left in between is stolen, and left to the Greats.
The Greats, pretending to be captains, and finding themselves to be thieves.
My night was like any other night, quiet, moving fast.
Like a rabbit's heart beat.
Fear, endurance, strategic.
I knew somewhere on the Golden, silvery ends of the moon, I'd find what was left of the song the siren wrote.
She's dead now, and all those long before her.
I have not, but the hands of the sage, and the opposition of the Hermit.
Yet, I still stand here, waiting for more fire.
What is the ,meaning without the cooling of lava?
