We Have a Problem

When I’m uncertain, I call it Houston.
Petty problems indicate corruption.
Gravity leaves the room; a failed mission.
Shuttled to the edge of space and reason.
Meteor might and solar system thumb,
Universal truths and wormhole vision,
When I ask for space, I pray for reason,
Tethered to a station that’s forbidden.
But, minuscule malaise matters little,
Mission Control maintains my gray matter.
Each day is a rebirth, countdown to launch,
Oxygen is strong, my breath not brittle.
Constellations connect stars that scatter,
Heaven is a highway to God’s response.