Wooing

The dead stars humble in their black holes, sing laments of when gravity was on their side
Hear it, hear it from the hearts you happen to get close to.
The drums of life and a drummer afraid to sleep for fear of missing a beat and slipping and subsiding.
Knowledge that comes early and only meant for the lonely with senses scattered and askew.

The stars that shine now, on a clear night, part of a pattern
that's speculated upon,
That with the help of numbers and names helps to discern
the reason life is such a longing for drops of options.

The stars glittering , casting spells on astrologers and cosmologists
On lovers and mountain climbers
On anarchists and on narcissists.
Knowing no one who has returned is a concern and the reason for rhymers

Wooing the shenanigans out of the quantum mechanics, greasy and queasy from exposure to one too many quarks,
All out of uncertainty principles and naked in the night, putting the spectra back into the spark.