I’m here
Again, stuck in the orbit of a faraway planet,
Kinda looks like Neptune from here…
I’m circling ’round and ’round and ’round,
With no permission to land, or explore…
And I get sick to my stomach as I do these spiritual
Somersaults,
Alone, in this inky nothingness,
Punctuated by dots of light messages
From already dead things.
All I have right now
as some trite transmission to your home base
is half-baked,
really bad poetry
to show you that this interstellar mission
to get home
involves you, somehow.
Permission to land?
Permission to land?
Permission to
Land.