The scritch-scratch
of this blue pen
mimics the spinning thoughts
wheeling round my head again.
In this life ephemeral
ripples on a foggy pond
why are we even here again?
Whatever god
or eldritch horror
beyond the reach of the palest starlight
coaxed the cold flames
from coals that coalesced into my consciousness
couldn’t you have left me well enough alone?
I didn’t ask for these atoms,
synaptic connections,
this blood and these bones.
We’re drifting listless
a sinking ship on a slate-grey sea.
At the end of it all
the cold hard line
at the edge of the world
what did it even mean?
Revolutions on tilted axes
nowhere and everywhere
simultaneously.