Planets

Burdens have been weighed heavy upon
the movements, far too slow,
all slouching against the walls
of the pulpit

Where Socrates will drag himself,
Diocletian, and his death,
to attribute heaven’s arms
to stoic, passing kismet

Past, into collapsing stars,
because we were certain of freedom;
certain – the healing balms,
to rush us past the gate’s keepers
and on to bigger plans.