26 April 2016

Postcard 59

I'm feeling lost in the cold of it all. I'm walking stiff and sore like an old meteor -- each facing our own dawn. I know I'm burning up but my rosacea fingers are tingling and numb. I'm feeling lost. Everywhere are subtle coercions. Each thing that pulls on me has its own warmth, but every pull is pain. I doubt my tenacity and I'm feeling lost. My brittle bones seek the flex of whirl; my soft flesh seeks a fire. The dust that makes me rattles against this plane like trapped electrons. I'm feeling lost with my madness tamped and tamped, my seek suppressed. I'm feeling lost but not, in space, directionless, not cold and flying forward in my own whirl, not pulling my own dust. I'm feeling lost between orbits and the pain is surprising.
My name is I have no name
My home is I am a stone in space
My family is I am alone
My pain is holding on of course.
My pain is holding course and my pain is letting go.
My pain is a flex of hot and cold.
It seems there's countless dust in space, not moving really, but drawing near or away. Each with pull and direction. Burning out and free with the borders of space a cold glowing dawn. Swirling together colliding, the fast coming horizon of a new day.
I'm feeling lost, so might you be, but whirl is king or queen and, cold or hot, is you and me.

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