Point Nemo has no sun.
Without it, we cannot set a course.
Calm waves slowly caress our ship, luring us closer.
The air’s turning cold, the sun must be setting, we’ll head out at dawn.
Point Nemo surrounds the largest unbroken stretch of ocean,
the point where the horizon is all encompassing.
There are no signs of life.
No land, no reefs, just the swaying of sails, carrying whispers.
The temperature keeps dropping
but we cannot tell the difference.
The boat shudders, almost shrivels, to the touch.
We lie through caught throats: The cold does not hurt.
Point Nemo embraces us.
We stare for a second too long, to show compassion.
If held tightly enough, many pass through to peace.
We cannot leave Point Nemo. We cannot call for help.
When we sail away, we are viscera
walking in place of people; not even food
for rats. We are trapped within our skulls, scribbling
epitaphs behind blank stares.
You will reach Point Nemo. We all do.