I hang up my ugly 
papier-mâché moon
for me to rest on. 
I sit, having parked
my hand-sewn polyester 
patchwork blimp, deflating beneath
the rough stitches 
my unskilled fingers formed,
by my clustered smattering 
of haphazardly painted stars.

I have been travelling alone
in my silent, incomplete galaxy
for quite some time now
and I am tired.

But I am grateful to have this moment
of rest from trying to render it. 
I find my nook, 
and settle in her warm embrace.
I stare into the dark sky 
which I myself painted
in streaky black oil-base
and I wonder: how did I end up 
in this place?

Before me created
from paper and clay
are my memories 
in the shape 
of stars and planets
in order to try to light the way
and to understand
where I am 
right at this moment,
or where it is
I am going to next.

At times like this
it is easy to despair
and feel like I am lost.

However, I smile to myself.
For I know,
though it looks messy,
my incomplete universe
is part of the unfinished project
that is my existence within it.

I have much to learn,
but I have learned so much,
and the hands that have made
all that is around me
have also been the hands
which have stitched 
the broken pieces of me
and of my means of travel
back together
every time
it has all fallen apart.  

And so, on the crevice 
of my moon
in the oily black sky
in my incomplete galaxy,
I am proud of the work 
I have done
And I am proud
Of the journey I am on
And I am proud
of how far I have come.