It is said by people adorned in white coats,
expertise hanging off them like bright lights
flickering on the conifer trees,
that mice and starmen succumb to the white taste
when denied access to companionship,
when freedom and interests are deprived,
when the sun and stars are hid,
the lid closed, the maze too well known.
Astronauts know what the white coats mean
they once had a smile as worthy as any
but that smile
came at a cost and the payment
when it came
took that smile and flung it back into the cosmos.
It hangs there still, orbiting forever,
a slipper frozen…if studied, the shimmer
of a dance, listened to,
the joy they once held perpetuated
as flickering cries into the void; a hope they might return,
they can never — for permanence is
the fluid state of letting go.