Wreck & Reference - A Lament

Breaking up in tiny rooms
suckling on the teat of space.
In lucid fields Ive come to pass
in the bottle I do see his face.
Mother, have we come to terms
when our insides become unlaced.
Knowing that itll come to this
the absolute nothing black of space.
Bloody trips in all the world
walled up here like theres a race.
Do walls mean we have mottled hearts?
Our will continues on the rays.
Planets always moving out
spreading at a steady pace.
Spinoza, sorry, when fission stands
there wont be god, just blacker space.