I’ve never felt
So apart…
From my goals,
My dreams,
My plans.
Equally distant
From any land.
No shoreline closer
Than memory.
Everything I could’ve
Ever achieved
Written,
Quit,
Read,
Stepped on,
Changed…
Drifts
Out of range.
I climbed
To that top of that rock
Called Hope,
But even here
The horizon refuses
To name itself.
Point Nemo:
The place where
Every direction
Is wrong,
Where the nearest humans
Are passing overhead,
Already leaving.
Every reference
Is shaking.
My compass spins,
Refusing north,
South,
Anything.
My hands move
Through the mist
Of uncertainty,
Cold and measured,
As if distance itself
Had weight.
Every thought,
Every word,
Every gesture
Falls short…
Sinking
From frustration,
From hopelessness,
From desperation.
Isolation hammers
My brain
Like waves
With no coast.
My mind fractures.
My compass breaks.
Nunquam aliquid novi.
Nothing new
From waiting.
From hoping.
Only debris…
Old signals,
Dead satellites
Burning out above me.
I don’t even know
What else to say.
I’ll find a chair
And sit down
At these coordinates,
In the middle
Of nowhere.