pluto

Soft tendrils

of whispering cosmic dust

encircle my floating body

as I’m broken away from my place

by inertia.

I’m pulled by a universal

need to change;

a constant ache where,

like petrichor, I see

the scent of my end rising

from inside me

I know that I can’t ignore it

for much longer, an Earth’s 2006,

a Mars’ ‘21, et cetera.

A life as an ephemera

is hard to grasp, when

extraterrestrial politics

favour an unconscious dictatorship.