The constellations whisper amongst themselves,
in the language of light and resonant shadows.
Stars blink Morse code messages;
perhaps a dance invitation, or an apology for cosmic clutter.
Somewhere between the voids,
the silent murmur of a black hole's breath,
exhaling ethereal secrets to wandering comets.
And the Milky Way tickles the ozone layer
with moonbeam laughter, wrapped in solar winds.
Transmitting signals of solitude,
galaxies spin their tapestries of woes and wonders,
oblivious to terrestrial listeners
reading the stars' tangled fibrils
as messages from halcyon gods, now remote.