I do not think that we will ever do these two boggling friends justice:
it would be impossible.

Stretched thin, the wisps of silken glossy depths spin on.
Pulled out, layer after layer of crowded emptiness seamlessly
Rips its way through.
Through what?
This nothingness is full, whole and so exhaustingly busy,
Like Penelope’s creation and undoing over and over.
But not for ten short (endless) years;
Her warrior dragged himself and the hero paused.

But this boundlessness is not a void.
Don’t fear the silent cacophony: embrace it.
There will never be a pause.

Over and over, it tumbles;
Hurtling forth hydrogen helium heaving balls of dust.
They are all drawn by the same eternal ink.
Closing in and circling. Elliptical and older than the oldest woman,
Hairs greyed, her once dewy skin concertinaed by Time.

It is packed with the mysteries that we have waited millennia to solve.
We desire full immersion, to be linked and stuffed with its knowledge.
And still it will spread on. Riches of the crushing explosions
That stun and baffle — dazzle.

On and on. Forever. We turn and turn, squint upwards and outwards.