Right after a cosmic poem

Imagination can't stretch till infinity.
It often shrinks unlike the universe
and the deep valleys of
between-the-line silences
iron out into normalcy.
The stereotype milestones
become visible again
as the straining galactic light
and the background radiation of thoughts
give way to the clearer and the mundane.
The reflective telescopes that read
the nirvanic scripts hung light years away
are given time-out and they rest for a while.
Deadlines, more immediate than the solar flare
burn during midnight. And an ordinary
everyday childhood memory
gives up all its sleep.