Frequencies woven in silence,
stars breathe through the veils of night.
Are we the echo,
of a dream perpetual?
Philosophers of the cosmic tide,
sifting through nebulous thoughts.
Do galaxies weep,
for time unmade?
In the abyss, a whisper;
does it matter, when matter
dissolves in the grasp
of a blackened sun's embrace?
Venture forth into the void,
and perhaps you'll find
the echoes of your own
forgotten stardust.