Staring toward the sparkling worlds
Just beyond reach, slowly growing
Bored with this world, but I know
More exist, and can fade safely now.
The sweetness of being here is
Being buried, let churn in dance
Of dust and carrion there, the
Fuel of progress not hunted yet.
The slow play grinds closer toward a goal, but
after the bang is the resting echo, before the
second shot can be heard.
I want to write on a crowded page, a dark screen, somewhere no one will remember me.
I want to be with life and living, journeying from where I need to be by season and leaving behind all other reasons. We are nomadic, yes? We are meant to roam to find a nook or cranny from which our world can expand, yet be kept separate from the rest. Solitude? No. We want autonomy.