The refrigerator was singing some sad old show tuneĪnd the doors and windows kept metronome time. The goods sat untouched in the shallow crisper. A spiritual release.Įventuality is creeping in like a burglar to steal our face and name. Without a home or a hope an astronaut is only a tin soldier on a forgotten mission. It is getting colder here on the moon, when the dark side becomes all sides. Take a long drink from the sun's emptying cup of life. No longer Earthbound and resigned to fate. There is a lump in his throat as he looks homeward. A scattered retention of plausible hope.įragmented documentation of a broken past, leaves the astronaut uneasy. There seems no escape from the inevitable. Crush these flowers to dust in iron hand.

Pleasing one is harder than freezing one. Pretending that everything is put into it's right place. Petting the broken vertebrae of a sandbox skeleton. I can't see my hand for it is before my face.