Cassini's Gone to Heaven

Why is it this way not the other way and what are you expecting of us here in this vile tunnel beneath an umbra of skyblown corpses and silent terrified monkeys in space noted and glimpsed by spiders who exude sharp patience and spin diaphanous tapestries of memory all the while relating such gleaming campfire tales of stick figure ghosts silhouetted against scenes of war and pictures of torment and dioramas of loathing some marijuana if you got some and don't let's forget our tiny vanguard our sharp fearless scout plunging its lionheart its holy goddamn fingers into the multi-ringed rind of our spectacular haloed cousin only to stutter scorch a dying bright fragmenting limb across that alien sky and what is all this with everyone crying back here dreading and dreaming and texting and hoping on our choked and likely waning earth and is there any word more lovely than enceladus or any vista more dreamlike than the sweep and plunge amid the rings slingshot around the planet's churning hexagonal polestorm before the virtuoso suicide before the last cascading image cast and hurtled back toward a darling bluish marble dancing with the one that brung us twirling among the glitterati and the astonishment of worlds and the eternal itch of this heartworn impossible family?