The Astronomer

How those that view the stars can miss everything thats right infront of them.

I live in the observatory tower,
Where cold metal meets grand sky.
Each rung and boldly crafted beam
Lies dull and does not gleam.
Business like below the paving stone
Drops of Heaven’s scattered shower.

With instruments of a dark and fibrous stilt,
Creations born of a spiders most spindling thoughts
And pleasured guilt, I plot the stars
And vast geometry of horoscope,
Which when nor where and here nor there
Could send spinning from its sprawling tilt.

Alone I gaze amongst symphonic
Groans of wrought iron frames,
To the bountiful nothing of Heaven’s
Great vistas and lustrous planes.

With industrious vigor and aid of marbled hilt
I spin to see the weather change,
And read do I of distant time,
What observing wisdom never built.