Hubble and Webb

Forced writing...
Mostly empty inside...
Slave to bills,
But surviving...
There are moments of brightness
Before the sun
Slips back behind the clouds...
Those clouds are dense
And black
And don't let light
Pass through them...
I read by the pale green light
Cast from my bioluminescent skin...
I am the light in my life...
I used to seek external light sources,
But that was St. Elmo's fire,
Or just an artifact
Of an overactive imagination...
Like a phantom limb
Tingling, cramping, and buzzing...
What isn't there
Is often felt more strongly
Than that that is...
I am that I am...
A galaxy unto myself
Attempting to avoid
My past penchant
For seeking out unstable galaxies
To crash into...
Unsuccessful attempts to merge
One with another,
While I wound up consumed,
And then shat out...
A rabbit leaping
Into the raptor's claws...
Mice jumping
Into the mouths of arctic foxes...
The doodle-bug
At the base of the cone
Is an ambush predator
Despite the childish cuteness
Of its colloquial name...
The closer you look at things,
The clearer they can get...
And sometimes
The clearer things get,
The darker they become...
Clear and dark
And Razor sharp...
Perceived meaning 
Obscured by optic clarity...
The past brought into severe focus
As the now fades at the edges...
Looking past the event horizon,
They say,
Isn't possible...
You can't see what's inside,
If, indeed, there is anything at all...
The big question:
Something from nothing?
We presume our perceptions
To be representative
Of an objective, shared reality...
Maybe it's a shared absence of reality...
A community phantasm
Of binary self-creating coding...
Just ideas with no medium to grow in
Other than fever dreams...
The ouroboros 
Choking on its tail
For eternities...