Stargazer

You will see Orion in me. In my rather too much leg. Tucked under neck, toes sticking out towards rainbow galaxies. They itch to track you, unfurling from the spine, down and down and down. Slinky jumping from the arrow head, pointed at your wordy heart. Apocalypse: the constellations shriek. They don’t want to save the world. They just hate the ugly patch our orbit takes. A screwed up sheet in a universal waste paper basket. You will see Orion in me. Orion is no longer. Orion is me.

Orbit

My foot

pounds down on the road.

The impact charges up my leg,

vibrating muscle, fat and skin.

The other leg comes down

and the force pushes the ground to breaking;

it can’t even breathe.

 

The weight of will

wishing to beat it from my mind

is heavy.

 

I gasp.

I gulp.

I drink in the air

and the wind cries with me,

flying by my side.

 

My strong legs can’t go on forever.

Eventually, the track will loop on itself

and I’ll end up back

where it all began.

 

I can picture it now;

myself a spectator of myself.

Watching from the start,

cringing at the beginning,

then appreciating the work it took

to build the foundations

I have now.

 

I cannot run for eternity.

But planets don’t stand still, either.