Originally posted 3/7/2013.
My arm, darker
than candle tip,
cooling like
dead wick.
My arm,
stark twig,
holds nothing,
is just pointing.
My arm tells the story:
over there’s where
I was going, where I still
need to go,
but I’ve been standing here
for a very long time now
and I do not think I am meant to be
triumphant in my return.
I think I am instead meant to be
the One Who Does Not Arrive,
the One who tells his story
to the traveler who has made it
this far. The old one
without so much
as a symbol
to fall back on,
stock still in desolation
until his arm drops,
at last, in surrender.
Dark Matter 