It's not the days

it's the minutes.

The days can be managed

to have shape, content

interest

emotion.

But the minutes can be hell.

The wolf howls at the moon

circled by Command Module pilots

so far from humanity.

Six lonely men, enduring their forty seven dark minutes.

But even they were loved.

Their lives had flavour,

they knew the intimacy of mutual delight.

All things must be borne

that love and life may flourish.

But they are not and they do not,

they are moon-grey, old and worn.

I need a savage wind

to drive someone

into my path.

Itching, unscratched

so hungry to be attached.

I need a woman with dirt under her nails

to tell me who I am.

It's cold outside

cold out here on the edge

colder than the far side of the moon.

When will the sun shine?

Why does a heart need a voice?

Quite how did the Sirens do it?

I am out of my depth.

All at sea.

 

Not recently autobiographical. Past experience quarried for Izz's comp.