By Liswindio Apendicaesar
The planets seek for esoteric guidance
among constellation, the skeleton of sky.
They learn how to align, fulfilling wishes
upon the signs and mathematical chaos,
how to turn the neck of god toward
mundane favor, a frivolous chance.
The stars twinkle so far, delivering light
from the cosmic history, a random blink
of the long dead Pillars of Creation.
Sometimes stars give hope: a new start,
gravity, tomorrow. At moonless night
they overcome the fear of dark
in their faintest fiery eyes.
But sometimes the stars lose, and then
fall from their thrones, betraying all
the hearts and prayers, and planets
retrograde against nature. In a snap
the future crumbles, and destiny fails
to ascend. Premonition loses its tracks,
hung up in a swirling motion, missing
Cassius, though, said the fault isn’t
in our stars, but rather in ourselves
for we are underlings. After all,
what can mere mortals dream over
the primal dice?
The astrological map isn’t enough to
lead through the Schrödinger fog, so I
stop beseeching the milky way a mercy
and start gambling on the road