Black on Grey
On his deathbed, he shook hands with the ether:
If lunar landscapes recall death, does that mean there is LifeTM Out There?
Or are we just transcendentally homeless?
Luminous, or suffocating?
Are we at the seat of the Gods?
Or is the celestial mist concealing a black chasm?
Where is our homecoming?
We must stare “as though one’s eyelids had been cut off”