At last: Compelled to Write


Looking in the mirror,
It suddenly occurs
How odd we really are—
Our ugly ears, pinned;
Our orifices gaping.

There’s no escaping,
That we are aliens,
To those besides ourselves.

We shovel in, mountains of food.
We slug back, oceans of drink,
And to think, this is normal!

We must stink, to keep it up,
And we do.

Somewhere, elsewhere,
Other aliens, must be doing it too.

Isn’t the Milky Way just a mass of gases?

One day, we will fade … away,
Into the passing of time.

Kat Mortensen©2014