A vigil free of fine leather captivity
can be found floating along fragments of an aether
fever-borne deception. I am free.
Dirty fingers smear layered grime-cake
in search of some soft purgation,
the kind provided in a gentle carcinogen
nestled just underneath the skin. It is a long way
from gasping in miasmatic indifference
but this is the enigma, the method
of fleeing. It is not your fault.
Not everything can be reduced to rosebud syllogism,
interleaving petals and sunshine threads
that tie all these disparate fractions
and force you to conclude that
it all works out somewhere. I was told
wars and plagues and personal inquiries
fell out of bearing from a suitably distant view,
but time is a wave-forged passage between stars.
Rather than shiver in desperate inconsequence,
in this perhaps one day my fingers would stain
the surface of some distant Alpha Centauri.