A Pome a Day for a Year

Edge of reality,
edge of time,
edge of exposure,
small rock floating in murky black
punctuated by points of dead light.

Dust kicks up,
figure slumps over,
sparse landscape surrounds,
this rock of nothing but sand,
and occasional bump of stone.

Lost to time,
lost track of time,
reality is no more future,
they stare skyward at nothing,
nothing returns their search.

Air for hours,
no escape plan,
a calm acceptance,
this lost cosmonaut lays down
and revels in solo observation.