Blasting through the desolate cosmos,
Destination, unseen – unheard.
Life on the edge – vanguard to the posturing elite.
Shrimps drifting through the black mass,
Unable to witness the gleam of stars,
Unable to sing, and to laugh – exiles;
Living amongst the ice,
And encased in the shields that
Fail to falter and blink.
Languid in eternal, light-less sleep.
Craving all we cannot have,
Free movement, and happiness, and love.
Under the hammer,
Pressure beating like that at the core of a star;
We cannot move.
We cannot hold;
Those nearest – simple acts overlooked.
Separated by countless light years,
Galaxies spanning the indeterminable void.
One day, maybe we will arrive,
Pioneers, starting over – another try.
A time when we can hold, touch,
And linger in the soothing heat of close bodies,
The promise of warmth and intimate pleasure;
Sleep, with dreams, and fleeting images of the past,
Ushering us along
Towards a mirage that shimmers
All along the boundary, eclipsed by only vision.
Some day we will exit this relentless purgatory.
Some day we will kiss, and make love,
And bathe in the beauty of re-kindled humanity;
As we sail, and as we drift,
Living – but just for the moment,
On the cusp.