Mocking though your credit shouts
-however, blind to this you pose-
your flat-born heresy is cold.
Did involvement play a role in the theatre games that preceded,
lackluster and nape pulling?
Was enthusiasm begrudged for sulk and bulk
where corner-store insight sold at double the worth,
unedited and napkin told?
Next bid, next bid!
Do I hear...
Nothing more for your heliocentrics,
now white dwarf and sinking to haze and blur.
Did the rays prove too carcinogenic,
or did the speed, pushing to bend, fold you?
Here, in the dead set center of your foamcore,
wire hanger held universe,
where gravity won't budge to push
white chalk constellations smudged,
dark matter is more night than force,
more hold than sway.
Time and curious fingers mold your fate-
all spray paint sprinkles
and bent orbits.
Your cosmology fails,
isotropic in its catastrophe,
unaware of its parallels
dead of its own devices.