A rust has come to roost with the

complacency of the now

as experienced through the mind

of a solitary satelite.

 

A kick is needed,

a spark.

 

A something to break the nothing,

the big nothing – only ever properly described

in the intrninsic link between sorrow and death.

 

Who could dare to dive into the mess?

Few,

and by default they are no longer with us.

 

What of the survivors?

Cowards, Bukowski would say,

or they did not hate it enough – yet who hated more than he?

 

Puzzles on the back of mysteries veiled in a fog.

 

Maybe he never shook the rust off

and it consumed him until he was nothing else.

 

What a broken poem

too much rust – and how does one shake it?