Defenseless flesh turns quickly cancerous;
the stars assail it, leave no respite.
They twist each cell to something monstrous
and kill us slowly with their deadly might.
Unburdened bones shiver in their sockets,
soon unremembering the weight they bore;
lifted into space by sun-bright rockets,
they've been adrift too long, can't go ashore.
Loneliness can kill as quick as sickness.
The stars are worth more love than even life.
Too much in us is prone to fickleness
and almost every mortal fears to die.
Restraint can strengthen; freedom makes us weak;
so on our lonely rock we huddle, meek.