Two planets,
solid cinnamon rocks,
each with plateaus that scrape stars,
collide.
The level surfaces shatter against one another,
fragments flung,
flailed away,
now floating
against a backdrop, a bastion, of speckled lights.
Vision of such transmogrifies
into spinning gyration.
Both spheres collapsing in closer,
the jutting plate shields diminishing.
Swirling slowly at first,
but exponentially so,
until becoming an unruly mess
of churning chaos.
Eventually, the hastened rotation halts
and the only thing remaining is greyness.
A comfortable grey
knowing it has either all stopped
or what astrological ataxia that resides,
still emanating existence,
cannot be seen.
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