In the land of lines and clutter, where the shapes go to sleep, There’s a ruckus, a jumble, where the dark and light do creep. A yellow blob in the middle, a sun, or a daisy, maybe, Stuck right there with nowhere to go, crazy.
The leaves, they aren't leaves, just spots of a void, Scattered around like the dreams of Freud. Some soft pink here, a whisper of red, A secret message, or just something that bled.
Cubes and bars and all kinds of geometry, Thrown together, a salad of astronomy. Love doing nothing, just hanging around, In a universe that’s flat, where it’s bound to be found.
Vonnegut’s eye, with a squint and a sigh, Would chuckle and scribble, and simply imply: “Here we are, folks, in the gallery of space, Where love lazes in idleness, with a peculiar grace.
