some bad poetry

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.