THE OUROBOROS

Out there, on our walk through time
one step, one second follows the other
in an orderly queue. No way back.

Yet, looking outwards to the stars means going back,
back into the past, lightyear by lightyear
compressing backwards into the aging red spectrum of endings;
which, paradoxically is the beginning itself.
The OUROBOROS. No symbol, but the fact.

While inwards must be onwards.
foreword - to where we go.
No thin, singular track through skinny space
- as fat and wide as ever it was:
a uniform matrix to embed the flying galaxies in,
Even predating the biggest bangs.
And previous ones too,
those cosmic eggs for ever.
Almost eternity in it’s nothings.

Unless space itself is stretchy,
a stretchy something
stretching out in all directions,
from a dot Into the enormity of no-thing.
The vehicle for stars to ride in, not on.
But from what? That spot,
a mote in God’s Mind?
And then, what, if outwards is only so
if observed.
Does perception therefore create it?

Do we carry the universe in us
as much as we in it?