A packed bag and a broken tin can left circling space
turning toward the sun, a face;
mirrored shield covering a mouth agape,
a hidden cave devoid of screams
and chants that mimic the drone
of a broken capsule pitching.
Switching from the crooked course offers little hope.
Major Tom sever your binding and shake your fist.
Floating, you vow, “my circuit’s dead, I can’t hear you
Planet Earth is blue; nothing I can do”.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013


Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #108


107The high red blood cell count
tipped them off as it was detected
pulsing through his veins;
a thunderous fibrillation.
Like a thousand messages dispatched
to his outer extremities, all the charm
and amenities of life seem wasted
like a dish of soup tasted and left uneaten.
Spirit beaten and spitting blood,
the front dressing, crimson soaked,
spoke of his sadly grave condition.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #107