Strange Sensation

is that a "nothing matters" feeling, again?
where i've anchored in
that "quiet despair" moment
of being nothing,
remote
drifting.
enhanced by knowing
the distance
between all things in their relatability,
and still knowing
how symbiotically we all exist.
that while, my existence is
predicated
ultimately on quantifiable relationships,
played out with pageantry both obscure
and familiar,
i still live in
frustration,
reaching out
knowingly into the gulf,
and taking back nothing
but the truth;
and nothing i want to
hold on to

i think this feeling might
exist at all times,
and only in unguarded lucid moments
does it come to the fore.
when i'm not bent on feeding
my impulses, and truly tired
for the effort.
like the resignation
of a dieing animal
when all hope is exhausted
after it's frenetic final moments.
only then, am i willing
to give in
to the truth.

or is it more exact
like a magnifying glass;
my inner observer
moving randomly about,
prising open some abstract
part of me:
my confusion, my denial
to strike down on
the nerve
resolutely pinning it
like some recalcitrant
worm, forced into exhibition,
wriggling against restraint,
scaffolded in empty space
stripped bare of
mental minutia and  conflicting senses,
given uncloudy pause
to gape
at the truth.

and i feel it again
the great foreboding
like
a portal opened by anxiety
and kept ajar
by gently forced acceptance.
transfixed in understanding,
i observe across the threshold
not some astounding revelation
but a cold, and excessive conclusion
of what the world will be
without me.

and it looks the same.

Untitled

lonely

stardust?

angry stardust

restless stardust

discarded

shed

from celestial bodies

celestial?

terrestrial

pedestrian stars

made us

awe

at the dead

heavens

relax

then expire