Residual Scars
There are some
Wounds that time
Cannot in fact heal,
Only serve to expand
The agony that’s felt.
At times the mind
Plays cruel tricks and
Is torturous upon our
Remaining time, living
In our glass fortresses
Which we have built.
We compromise our
Feelings, all memories
Aside, but they remain
In our subconscious
Only one day to arise.
I would be remiss in
Saying these wounds
Cannot be cauterized.
However, the residual
Scars are forever and
Before our waking eyes.
One to Three Years
A mere—
One to three years is all
That is left, robbed of
The most salubrious item
Each one of us possesses,
Stress levels crest atop the
Frighteningly unfathomable.
The diagnosis is quite dire,
Proceeding to shockwaves
Stark, utterly unimaginable.
A mere—
One to three years is all
That is left. So this is the
Way it finally ends, one last
Breath and invariably death.
A second and third opinion
Break on the horizon, but
Hope is now dwindling as
The setting sun yields for
No man; no compromises.
A mere—
One to three years is all…
A View From Blue Origin
It’s not hard to
Imagine, but hard
To fully appreciate,
How small and
Insignificant the
Earth is in the
Vastness of space,
And how little our
Time is on this planet
In conjunction with the
Vastness of Time itself.
Truly, this must be an
Eye-opening experience,
An awakening of sorts,
An unveiling of a reality
We so thoughtlessly
Ignored prior to a view
From Blue Origin as we
Float along weightlessly.
Gravitas of Gravity
As I continue to melt
Again while off my feet,
No not from the heat,
But rather from gravity.
Gravity pins me to the
Cushions of my seat
As I feel depleted of
The energy needed to
Scurry about frantically,
Haphazardly with fleet-
Footed gazelles, albeit
Impossible to compete.
There was a time when
My resolve once replete
Was relentless, concrete.
Observation complete
As I continue to melt.
Dumpster Fire Press 