Stranded
cosmonaut, dazed survivor, apparatchik
In
the space dust, in the incandescence,
and
the red rock
of a
distant world.
The
gods are not here. There’s radio silence. So
We
invent anew. Let the mind find
what
it would worship. Or a day
without
prayers, and push through the heavy air
of
that unresponsive freedom.
They
won’t answer if you call them. But there’s something in it
Talking,
not to ourselves only,
because
we are never alone. Our heads are full of voices and
our
heads are full of ears.
You
can find them, huddled
beseeching,
clamouring
to
be born.
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