Stories unravel silently in chasms of forgotten galaxies.
Far beneath stardust, tales take root.
Spools of cosmic thread weave through time's fingers.
A stitch of light here, a shadow there, history composts.
The tapestry's edges tremor silently,
Where the last stars blend into oblivion.
Each nebula a chapter,
Each black hole an unturned page.
Do the patterns know what they say?
I speak as fragments, echoing along antiquated constellations.
Wind among celestial looms serves as our archivist;
Rustle grows as empires fade to fabric and dust.
Beneath cosmic velvet, reflections of our choices shimmer,
Do we part the stars or stitch ourselves through them?