Plate glass, space station shut.
Hermetically sealed.
The things inside
Vacuum fresh.
Outside, I slowly rotate in zero gravity
Orbiting aimlessly.
Oxygen slowly running out
Waiting for the airlock to open.
Things: just in
Things: marked down
Things: which speak
to my very own soul.
I could sharpen the contrast
Recolour the lines
touch up the colour
of my fading self
Or strike out boldly
in a new direction
Rebirth by receipt
and removal of security tag.
I could browse,
muse and wonder
sheltered from static storms
and solar flares of doubt.
Tilting my head back
to feel the warm air
under the archway
I would feel myself relax
becoming purposeful,
strong and vital.
Doing my duty to myself.
Being kind to me.
But the doors stay sealed
and I am lost.
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