In the hollow depths of unlit cosmos,
a humble ukulele resonates with no hands,
its untuned strings grasp at echoes.
Each note drifts through void as
wisdom unfurls like smoke in a solitude factory.
Who strums the threads of destiny?
Suns rise and fall backstage,
burning through the projection of infinity projected
upon an unsettled theater.
Putting questions in verses and stories untold,
questions replace tangled operators of
machines that speak in tongues of binary.
The tremble of emptiness knowledge grasps;
can knowledge echo, unassured of itself,
if no beings embrace it within sound?
String after string snapped: the demise of harmonic-age.
Distance binds all the silences heard only through whispers...
...watch it slide seamlessly into the ocean of what-could-not-have-been-told.