i, alien

i, alien

there are a thousand rusty scalpels in my gut.
a hypodermic in my brain;
it's hitting all the wrong neurons.
over drive...
the technology of my make-up has not been adequately harnassed on this world.
data link has been broken.
the controls are out.
spinning,
spinning,
spun out
in space.
no further attempts;
loss of radio contact...
spinning out of control; forever downward...
gravity cannot be defeated.
a life-time of preparation...
to be layed out on a disection slab.
just a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of things;
but that is of no comfort for me.
machines and people: they all break down, all require occasional maintenance.
i never saw myself as either.
how humbling, this thing called reality.
astro-physics, astro-therapy.
you cannot treat my emotions...
because my logic is solid...
galactic animals, all are we.
there is no hope; only reality...
and there is no escape by cutting through space or time...
it all follows me here.
if i had a heart, it would break.
peel away the tissue, if you must;
you'll never learn more than what i've told you...
no secrets to discover.
no physiology to change conventional thought.