7277. RACING

RACING

Here, I am racing towards the death :

of something not myself. Less heeded,

perhaps, not even listened to. Less listened

than less heard. I am racing towards a silence.

Exclamatory prose and explanatory items -

I can tell you about the stars and sky, but I

cannot hide them. Ride them. Write them either.

I am lost, that sheep-herding astronaut of pendant

situation, riding with a staff between lambs of

sleep and dream. The race that I am in : this

moon is falling, while this sun arises. In the

vacuity of an opened space, it's pretty much

all the same. Yes, pretty much all the same.

I am racing towards a Death I will not claim.