Rocketing to the moon,
USS Southbound Phoenix crew
and I, your Major Tom,
depressurized and canonized,
a cannonball of lost trajectory.
Space is the only place
appropriate for my recourse,
tracing invisible vectors across
lonely forlorn skies, dotted
flecks of paint across cold
charred canvas of night.
If god had done more than flicked
dripping fingers of existence, none can tell.
i, Major Tom, dare only to
reach my stubby arms out
of my rusty lifelike cage.
i fear no lack of oxygen
for i am breathless.
i fear no love for i
am heartless now.
The vacuum should fear
me, the hollow flight
suit of Major Tom,
stretching out to embrace
nothing in particular anymore.
