All of the miles of earth are covered in shadow.
I can block out home with my fingertip.
I watch as the Sun marionettes her favorite puppet,
and I am possessed all the same. Sitting here
on space rock, commandeered by my lucky
blue green marble or else suffer into nothingness.
I am tripping into craters, and only my dusty hands
can carry me onwards. There are no echoes
to answer my screams. The night is an endless
funeral shroud. God, you are all so far away.
I fold my poems into paper airplanes,
but they are still not sharp enough to break through
the thin atmosphere, and I am left here
imagining your lives spin without me.
----
apr "16," 2017
it's 3am and i'm feeling a type of way
YOU ARE READING
watterson
Poetryan experimental attempt to write a poem a day for the month of april spoiler alert: i did it
