Perplexed Views

The dots, million times, 
like fire ants. 
A black mass, you want 
to exterminate. 

Give me a light year 
to understand the gray sky. 

After the blast 
the mind spills. 

Thoughts, endless thoughts. 

How do you reach the rim― 
of success, as an ing'enue, 
drifting down, without raft 
in the river? 

Was it a winter sleep of a toad 
to ward off the 
hypothermia?