By P.J. Greystoke


From the clays of a cold star, we are risen.

Every atom, molecule and smile seemingly explained to the last definable detail.

Undeniable intelligence.

.        But where is the beauty?

.                   Where is the faith that led us here?

.                                 Where is that sunset?

…And by sunset, I don’t mean the atmospheric prism, through which, layers of light must pass, till we see the ultra violet, formulaic and forensic explanation

.           …that we bequeath with ill-deserved pride to our grandchildren

.                  …before our brain activity and vital bodily functions finally cease.

I mean the sun that rises in the morning, tipping his hat to the moon night-watch, as they rejoice in silent recognition of each other’s efforts.

.                               The sun who invites children to laugh and play

.                   or lovers to walk hand in hand on a sandy shore.

The sun who can lift the spirits, wake the dead and provide a reason for tomorrow.


Futility takes hold.

I write with fading light,

mourning the ultimate inevitability

That from the clays of a cold star,

we shall one-day return.


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