Tardis Like These Days

There is no poetry,
no song,
in this sad place.
It is always the same
like black paint
on black paint
in thick wet splotches.

Here
Where everything sinks
into a weird state
of atemporal synchronicity
utterly undistinguished
on a bleak background
of mere carbon oblivion
or the promise of such
anyway.

This is what I have become
here
in this sad place
and that is why
I must leave.

There is no color
in this bizarre world
I was never meant to inhabit
in the first place.

Even my newsfeed refuses
to deliver anything new
here
here,
where endlessness
is only the beginning of more
endlessness,
where even the cockroaches
have shiny new teeth,
slick and brown,
in the mind's eye,
and they are always hungry,
where my karma pushes me
south again
as if to say
what took you so long
in the first place?

After all I still remember once
seeing the moon for the first time.
Don't we all?
Maybe not.

But still I dream,
as if none of it mattered any more,
as if there were nothing else worth doing.
Still I dream
of a place where poetry
and song
still sing
Somewhere at the edge
of an undiscovered galaxy
somewhere lost in time and space.
Still I dream like this
until the heat death of the universe
when and where I stand
Tardis like
on the brink of it all
blinking in disbelief
and wondering how it all began
or if it ever did
even
only to shut the door
in a kind of blind refusal
one last time
only to move on anyway
if only
for one more single drop
of starry rain
or for just one more precious day
I can never live again.