This is not my afterlife,
This is not another world.
This is a drugged mind,
A demonic confine.

Sent by my kinship,
Perceived by an audience.
The stars outnumber the people who pray,
For this galaxy is me, and I attack everyday.

Swirling inside my locked and rugged mind
Is a terrible shadow of what I will find.

Whispering campfires,
Drinking tall tales.
A widow of self,
Protected by air.

Thus, I’ll battle and stare,
Jab and glare.
And the faithful moon to whom I yearn,
A telescopic lens which transcends,
All I am and all I learn.

I do not retain intelligence to understand,
And therefore cannot comprehend
The journey of which I have been sent,
And the reckoning mind, trialed and bent.

I will salvage and clean what I can of this scene.
My mind is a warfare of all that’s obscene:
Debris blocking simple, practical tasks.
It’s difficult to be me, but it will not last.

I am troubled and ill-fated,
But that’s not to say
That that’s who I am
For the rest of my days.

Meet me at noon, and I will meet your gaze.
The stars will appear, and so will our fates.

I am not of this world, but that too is a construct.
For our intelligence limits us to this existence.
Rejoice for the women who have gone before us,
Conceived other worlds, searching for star dust.