(Inspired by On the Road by Jack Kerouac)
by Chris Biles
Like Jack, I run
from one falling star to another
until I drop too.
And when I drop I feel like I don’t
deserve to do so
because I have nothing to offer anyone
except for my own empty confusion.
I am lean on memories,
like the hollow man who jabs
the needle for his thousandth
hole in his white, woesome arm,
living on that feeling when you’re driving away
and the people you love
turn to specks and simply disperse.
But they are timeless shadows
that never shed a tear,
so why should I?
I don’t die enough to cry.
My destiny is to walk to plank
– the one all the angels dove off –
but not to jump.
I’ll stand alone beneath immense skies,
starless, unseen and therefore heavy,
waiting to become the atmosphere,
because the mortal realm is bleak.
Everything about me will be drowned
God is gone.
There is silence.
So I will seep into the atmosphere,
succumb to the myth of a rainy night,
chase those falling stars going round in my head.
Then, maybe, that darkness and what it does to me
will give me something to offer someone
besides my own empty confusion.
Then, maybe, someone else will get all confused,
lean on memories,
running from one falling star
until they drop too,