Work Text:
It’s a kind of
w a n d e r l u s t –
dreaming of the stars.
Hoping for more,
for space, for
something.
But there’s
nothing
to be found in the sky,
only pinpricks of light–
nothing
to be reached
with arms only long enough
to pick flowers in the grass.
Green isn’t as comforting
as the blackness
of space.
The ground is
harsh,
hard,
cold.
The sky opens above,
soft and deep,
the emptiness welcoming
when home
is nothing but an existencial
crisis. Why can’t something
happen, why can’t the stars
move closer to earth?
Means of travel are inept
at reaching
anything
worthwhile.