The moon ascends not through the air alone,
But in the marrow of each ancient bone—
Where galaxies are cradled in the flesh,
And every breath is stardust’s whispered mesh.

Sunset unravels, threads of fading light,
A tapestry devoured by the night—
Each shadow hums with planets yet to be spawned,
And silence wears the cloak of dusk and dawn.

Her scars are maps of epochs long dissolved,
A braille of secrets never fully solved.
The tides within us rise to meet her speech,
A dialogue no mortal tongue can reach.

The stars, like sentinels in iron guise,
Carve runes of fire through the vaulted skies—
Their light a needle threading through our veins,
To mend the rifts where chaos forged its chains.

We drink the ink of supernova streams,
Our blood a cursive script of comet screams—
Each cell a vault where time’s old hymns are kept,
The universe a lung that has not slept.

The void we fear is not some distant shore,
But orbits woven in the heart’s hushed core—
A billion suns in every fingernail,
And endings curled like seeds within a gale.

When dawn exhales its helix forged of flame,
The night withdraws—but does not shed its name—
For constellations nest in marrow’s keep,
Where shadows birth the light they meant to reap.

We are the riddle and the answer spun—
The dying star, the cradle, and the sun.