Feral Stars

Just a random short semi-existential poem.

Feral stars burn the midnight oil, lumps of coal wrapped in foil. The galaxy is a garbage can of flaming orbs and celestial sands. Are we not the scraps of the gods scraped from the table, not fit for dogs? So we float through space among the trash, condom wrappers and table scraps. A heavenly paradise there is not, just heaps of compost and earthly rot. We will become the kings of the junkyard, our castles built of rusted cars. The earth has forsaken us. The gods know not that we exist.