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Poet Commentaries

Solitude

Solitude

Whispers shoot out the muzzle
with a velocity higher than expected
At the same instant
the winds shift and die.

I hear and feel them.

I knew the shots would be fired.
Words are not chambered quietly.
There is the industry
in loading as they walk past.
The bristle of fear
and the aversion of eyes
as they pretend not to see.
There is the click of tongue,
the scent of ionization,
expectorant and repellant.

Their atmosphere is their armor;
an atmosphere made
of one part toxic words,
two parts fate
and a quarter in tin.
It deflects and burns me.

So I ricochet off them
once again into the void
of this doorway
with but the singe of a whisper
and a slightly different spin.

For the unassimilated
being off to the side
avoids the crash and burn.
I could have curled up
in the middle of the walk
or on their front stoop.
To choose “in their face”
and make sure fragments
of me left their mark.

I could have shaken the tin
loudly
to mine a quarter

I once had gravity.
I know how it is.
A collection of matter
made up of theirs’ and mine
orbiting around a sun.
Massive I was
and had an atmosphere
that insulated
and could be breathed in.

Things were pushed off me
before the implosion
which propelled me here,
before that last remnant
of what once was me
was sucked into a stratosphere
I was not pulled to.

Shrapnel like me
prefers the transient reality
of bounce and skip.
Universes are formed in youth
bound together or torn apart
by something bigger
and you can see bigger best
from where I am.
One can soar for days
never seeing another planet
or asteroid,
never seeing a horizon
filled with sunrises or sets.

With each turn one marvels
feeling neither propulsion
nor attraction
and yet one moves,
spinning lazily
in the blackness
of this doorway.

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