PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Gravity is sick of me -
I feel a sudden lift.
In spite of it I scan the crowds,
the skies, the winding valleys:
there is nothing to be found.
So I continue upwards.
The air begins to thin,
the clouds all dip to bathe me,
and every star will shimmer.
There is no God to greet.
Below my feet will dangle,
above the darks enclose,
and all the while I contemplate
how someone here could obligate
me to touch the ground.
Drowning in our pointlessness,
sterilized and wound
about the rims of feeble pikes,
laid to bed my narrows,
now risen as my arms.
As the void envelopes me,
as the cold devours;
I'll speak aloud to no one.
My words will have no meaning,
and they will make no sound.