Sextant

Less than a whirr, but more than a hum;

These engines sounds so different this far from home.

I set my sextant to the northern star and find myself no less lost.

Is it not wondrous that we time travel at night?

These flickering fingers of light, beckoning to us from the distant past.

I imagine myself bathed in their warmth as I wander among their barren children;

I feel the sharp nick of scarred rock, of ancient ice,

And see my terrestrial blood, alien on this surface.

Yet here I lie,

Blessed and cursed by my transience;

Servant to this universe, and master of none.

Yet here I lie,

Blessed and curse by my sentience;

Master of this universe, and servant to none.

And here I lie,

For my boldness and bravado whither in the vastness of this chaos and elegance,

And, from this scale, my fervor is seen as aimless drifting.

But still, these lights, they sing;

But still they twirl and swing in their navy gowns.

And, clothed in this night, I follow.

Townsville, 26/8/19