Who am I?  

There is no wind. No light. Nothing to hold in this barren ergosphere.
There’s a dead boy on the other side. At least I think he’s dead.
Buckled under the weight of self-loathing and denial.
Smothered out his light.
He is a dark star.

In this dark event of my singular end, I remain forever suspended.

I invented this lonely space, between.
I cannot go forward. I don’t know who I am.
And there is no road back to the light.
There are some effects from which we cannot run.

Shiny knick-knacks hover, just beyond the horizon.
They tantalize my margins.
Others, less fortunate, cross the line.
I cannot live on borrowed suns – the darkness takes them in.

Past and present tangle in this impossibility.
I am unravelled.
To thwart this continuum I must confront my reality.
Could I cross the line? Embrace the me that was to be?

Perhaps, on the other side of darkness,
there is another space,
another time,
a universe
for me?

© 2006 Murray Walford