Out beyond the clear blue sky,

Way above where birds can fly.

Is a yet untraveled place.

Everyone just calls it space.

Out there don't exist no evils.

No rebellions. No upheavals.

Nothing. Just an empty place.

Such is the unruly space.

Sometimes it shows people dreams.

Sometimes people hear its screams.

Sometimes it looks up above.

Sometimes you can see its glove.

It can drag whole stars around.

Spinning planets round and round.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

Sometimes you can feel its gaze.

Such is the excentric space.

As the days start to get colder.

As the people grow yet older.

Space is still up there, it sees

How the next life plants its seeds.

People birth and people die,

People trust and people lie,

People act like birds and beasts,

People mourn for the deceased.

People... people... what to do?

We will have to think this through.

The the space went oddly quiet.

Its as if it saw a riot.

Thats not it, because instead

It saw that it lost its head.

Its own mind was quite unstable.

'Bout as clean as a cheap stable.

It had talked to no existance.

For example, this one instance

Took a lot of time to say.

But i guess that is the way

That the things work in this world

So it watched the words unfold.

Into a short, tiny poem

Just like this one thats right here.

Yes, the one youre reading Owen.

Or whoever else is here.

But now that the wall has fallen

A new troubling task arose.

This one story should be over.

Like a three month old dried rose.

So the story will stop writing

Its own self, it will end soon.

And with that it shall be added

to the fog, the sun and moon.