Standing alone,
Ahead of my time,
Scanning the plateau…
New wonders,
And horrors,
Waiting to be reached,
By the slightly slower masses…
Fortunate in their numbers,
In their company,
In their mass plushy safety nets…
I smell ungrown flowers,
And pluck and date them,
As proof for those who are in doubt still…
It isn’t particularly heavenly,
The future, that is…
And traveling alone out front,
Is not particularly enviable…
But we choose not our pace,
Race,
Time,
Nor death-crime…