A Stellar Sestina

Look at that, that lightning bolt,

Listen to that, that everlasting storm,

Get it down to a beautiful rhythm,

Don't be caught with a sidereal dream,

A loud, nebular, taciturn silence,

Supernova, stuck in a stellar tomb.

There's much to say for silence.

These are scorpionic, broken-up bolts,

A note to self, written on the tomb,

That says: "don't run from the celestial storms--

Make your own house of Telluric day-dreams,

Don't be afraid to make your own rhythm."

And what, quite, is that rhythm?

It's the beat of quasars, of Lyrid silence,

No set beat, no phosphorus-cooked bad dreams.

Instead-- Luciferian-built bolts,

Thunderclaps above Icarian storms,

Screaming "freedom from fear" from aphotic tombs.

Fear? What fear? Fear of dark tombs?

Fear of saturnine, post-mortem rhythms?

Fear of Daedalian, Jovian storms?

Please. You are not one to fear the silence--

You are the one who knew never to bolt,

And now, you're scared, caught in a bad dream.

There is no "uncontrolled" dream.

There is only that Eridian tomb,

Of which there is not to fear, nor to bolt,

But venture into, into the rhythm

The white noise laced with Hydrian silence

An inner, great expanse, riddled with storms.

Ride the Poseidean storms,

Quantify the hysteric, Venusian dreams

Be enveloped by the mortal silence,

Embrace the sempiternal, decayed tombs

Embrace the old Martian, war-torn rhythms,

Don't be afraid of wild, Rohirric bolts.

Let storms roll across fresh Gaian plains set ablaze, the dreamers set in tombs--

Massive valleys of monuments, built and dedicated to the rhythm of Olympus, unable to escape their Aquariid-induced, lurid dreams--

Bleeding bolts out of their sides, let the electricity flow, with only a singular comfort in the silence.