Asteroids

Waking in night so quiet
even silence echoes,
ghost moaning in its crypt.
Eternal orbit of clock’s hands
mocks inability to sleep
with soft click click click,
countdown to alarm’s shriek,
day after day trudge to job
week after week eat sleep repeat
month after month passed by
year after year in dark emptiness.

No need to dream what it feels like
to be an asteroid, circle a sun
day after day in dark emptiness
no time to rest week after week
passed by month after month
year after year for eternity.
No dog-fighting space ships
in this contest of wills,
only numbing repetition, wondering
if one day enough will be enough
and it will fling itself from its orbit
toward dangerous new galaxies.

Maybe it’s better to go digital,
amputate those hands so they
never pull back the covers
to reveal heart’s bitterness.

If star-stuff seeks new light,
can it ever be content in old orbits?

©2025 Kenneth W. Arthur