fatal optimism

elsewhere remade
novel and shimmering
to the sound of the last one tearing

surrendered their wings not yet frozen
as you closed to consume
yet I looked on
somehow sure I would be spared
untouched at the corner

only a moment
to reflect on this denial
as the poison enters my heart

union

opposite the divide
standing at each precipice
they notice the other
close enough to touch

leaning far beyond the boundary breached
fingers meet their match a moment
before feet slip away
together and alone
they embrace
weightless
in freefall

look up

feeling motion sickness
planted steady, holding still
wild eyes frantically chasing
spectres searching for an exit
as they crash against the walls
have I so soon forgotten
the edge spins into a blur, but
the center does not move

ready to discard this distraction
regain the mind’s eye view
with focus now, step to center
the air is clearer here
the echoes of this tired discord
fall fainter as I rise

The aliens are just too busy to talk.

I came across an insightful article today titled Why We Haven’t Met Any Aliens.  Its premise is that as the intelligence of a species increases, so does its members’ tendency to occupy themselves with self-gratification rather than attempt to communicate with other beings.

stage four

lingering spectres
dead by their own joined hands
have spun my weakness front and center
and bled me of my will

a character, a plot device
whose relevance will pass
this story’s nothing new
a perfect portrayal
this vague wandering
mired in metaphor
point to point
to pointless