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.
. 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.