An Outer Constant


So spake the celestial outlier


in booming and gravitational tones:


Hearken, for I am your only crier;


these are abrasions I have seen and grown!”


What connotations were lost in its haste


to expel its wisdom, we cannot know -


our understanding lacks and in its place:


the ravings of men and their telescopes.


Were it not a voice, but a membrane shook,


hemorrhaging its contents down towards none


and laying its claw to draw in and hook,


anchored by mass at behest of dead suns;


we'd seek to prod its infinite bubble


with mechanical detritus that strays


long after the passing of our Hubble,


while its insight that's accrued shall remain.


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