We are all stupid
In our shirts and ties, in our
Orange rooms
With cups of thick coffee, through
The clouds, a wire from crown
To Proxima Centauri, our hands
Too drawn to dig
To lift us.
The blood in our bodies -
a strange fuel, fits no other
Engine, we are stuck here
Together with just our love
My love, Which still,
on darkest nights
makes even the unimaginable
Ache.
GJ Hart currently lives in London and has had pieces published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.
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