Nine planets spin in quiet contempt.
Eight have no patience for life.
One carries life that cannot leave fast enough.
And humans insist it is the main event.
Mercury trembles, jittering along its orbit.
Counting sparks of panic.
Every glance a small inferno.
Humans clutch sandcastles as citadels,
rush from shadows of their own making,
believing urgency is purpose.
It whispers to Venus:
“I burn too fast for their attention.
They mistake trembling for courage, panic for purpose.”
Venus drifts in silken clouds, tracing Earth’s boasts, Mars’s petty conflicts, Pluto’s defiance:
“They call trembling courage.
I call it amateur theater.”
She nudges Jupiter with a solar wink:
“Watch closely, the tiny sparks believe they are stars.”
Earth spins with pride and dread entwined.
Raising cities, walls, monuments, hashtags.
It writes eulogies in capital letters
as stars collapse silently.
It whispers to Mars:
“See how they struggle.
They call this life.”
Mars tilts red eyes, deserts cracking like brittle parchment, memories of floods unrecorded:
“They wage wars over furniture.
Philosophize over crumbs of time.
Their ambition is quaint.
I remember oceans swallowing them whole.”
Jupiter churns storms with godless amusement.
It overhears Mercury counting panic and Venus whispering about theater, and chuckles:
“Tiny sparks, imagining revolutions.
All rehearsal, no audience.”
Moons orbit silently, bearing witness to human vanity.
A soldier runs across dust like it owes him taxes, shouting orders to shadows.
Jupiter laughs, storms spinning:
“I never signed up for this charade, yet it amuses.”
Saturn rotates with rings of elegance no one asked for.
Mirrors of Earth’s desperate glare at night.
It nudges Uranus:
“See them? They believe grandeur can be manufactured.
Entropy will redecorate in sand soon.”
Uranus tilts sideways, snorts at solemnity.
Humans invent meaning like toddlers stacking sand.
Its storms whisper:
“They will call this progress.”
Saturn adds softly:
“And they will never notice how fragile rings can be.”
Neptune drifts through blue silence, half-closed in judgment.
Watching sparks of life trying to write novels in ash.
A painter spills coffee on canvas.
A poet screams into empty streets.
A lover writes letters to someone long dead.
Neptune yawns, turning to Pluto:
“All this ephemeral dust.
Brief sparks in a universe indifferent.”
Pluto smirks from the edge:
“Declare me nothing. Erase me. Call me lost. Call me failed.
I remain.”
Stars collapse, burn, flicker, gossip in plasma tongues.
“They file grievances against gravity,” a dying star murmurs.
Comets wander politely, drunk on motion, sprinkling chaos into structured attempts at meaning.
Black holes yawn, drinking light.
“They squabble over furniture while I feast on photons,”
they think. Patience infinite. Appetite silent. Verdict eternal.
Entropy throws confetti across collapsing stars.
Twists human ambition into ephemeral dust.
“Your progress is charming,” it whispers.
“Your ambition is cute.”
Gravity hums complaints at towers and walls.
Time ticks sarcastically.
Planets tilt, drift, whisper, and roll eyes at human vanity.
A monk folds faith into paper prayers.
A child screams into the void, believing sound leaves a mark on eternity.
A painter spills pigment across a canvas, hoping colors outlive their hand.
A king stamps a decree like it matters.
Mercury counts panics.
Venus tracks whispers.
Earth spins and boasts.
Mars tilts and mocks.
Jupiter churns storms.
Saturn displays elegance.
Uranus tilts.
Neptune yawns.
Pluto lingers.
Entropy dances.
Gravity hums.
Time ticks.
Humans continue to clap at echoes, certain of significance.
While somewhere, a black hole checks its watch,
a dying star files its last grievance,
and Pluto scribbles footnotes on definitions.
All of them agree:
Applause tastes like hope, but only for the hopeful.
Planets glance at one another.
A subtle nod between Neptune and Pluto, Jupiter winks at Mercury,
Saturn tilts a ring in quiet amusement.
Even cosmic indifference has its small acknowledgments.
Humans do not hear.
Humans do not matter.
Nine planets spin in quiet contempt.
Eight have no patience for life.
One carries life that cannot leave fast enough.
And humans, tiny sparks on an indifferent canvas,
continue to believe
they matter.
And somewhere, Entropy, tipping an invisible hat, whispers:
“Enjoy your spotlight, little spark.
The universe is already rewriting your oblivion.”
No comments:
Post a Comment