Friday, 24 February 2017

space poem #2

Spun so that everything
has weight. Moved so that everything
appears still. He talks to make sense
of the senseless, listens to silence,
tries not to be cowed.  In his suit,
built to fend off cold and radiation,
he emerges - the cord, so like that cord
in the moments when he first emerged
that held him, fed him, connected him back
through the many moments to his first parents -
he drifts, watches stars and emptiness compete,
the void a mouth, a scream, a fist…
the stars, songs desperate to be heard
before the ultimate silence takes them
and makes them begin the journey again.

He turns slowly, moving as he is,
held as he is, suited as he is,
and wonders…

If the cord broke and he drifted,
how much time might he be granted
and what would be the worth of each breath
when even the stars flicker into darkness?

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