Wanderer

Across the frozen wasteland of speckled space,

Which reaches into the infinity of tomorrow from the land of the now;

I fly alone,

Passing others’ lives.

 

Soaring through the icy mists of detritus from imploded failure,

As they collapse into harmonious structures beneath a guiding stars light;

I watch life appear,

Nurtured under harshness.

 

And I ponder…

 

How does one create beauty in the blackness of sorrow,

Where the light does not shine and souls do not touch?

 

How does one approach the warmth of a star,

Jealously guarded by the debris of ages?

 

How does one live in a place devoid of nourishment,

And still create a pulse of cherished connection?

 

My musing produces no satisfactory answers.

 

So I return to observing the frenetic pattern of collapse, rebirth, and eventual collapse again,

Gleaning my answers from the perpetual, purposeless re-creation;

All ultimate failures,

From lack of connection,

Lack of appreciation,

Lack of nourishment.

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