The stars awake with fervent melodies,
dancing on the edge of cosmic dreams,
the void whispers secrets only known
to the wandering souls and gleaming voids.
The spirals of endless night
sketch on canvases of time,
an artist in the shade of nova's bloom,
casting shadows that sing.
In the static, a hum of history,
tangled frequencies wrap the hemispheres,
cloaked in ephemeral desires,
calling forth the bandits of the skies.
Poisonous to some, yet oddly pure,
the clatter is an ancient score,
inscribed by the decried, the devotees
of forgotten galactic hymns.