WesTel is to telecom, as
Earth is to the Sun.
I orbit WesTel, like
the moon circles Earth.

Faster, faster, faster—
I spin.
Pulled away from—
all I know.

Spinning, spinning, spinning—
a centrifuge.
Extracting my soul—
consuming it whole.

All that remains, are
bits of bone and flesh. And greed,
the glue that bound us.

Gravity pulled me away, from
home and familiar faces. Left me
with colleagues in unloved places.

They also are small and dense,
orbiting a dying corporate icon—soulless.

When stars die, they recede
with planets and moons in tow.
Disappear into tiny black holes.
.
When an industry dies, its
companies vaporize. Executives
dispatched to early graves.
Memories suspended, timeless in the void.

WesTel died, the industry survived,
dust and gas from the company live on.
Collapsed inward by gravity, a new planet forms.

I slip into the vortex, reborn.