Star Talk

We know the Earth
from concrete eyes,
reeling at muzzle-flash
stars bleeding from the snouts
of factory cannons.

At ends,
the spirit meets the flames,
anguish breeding in the smoke stacks,
challenged birthright to its ecstasy,
and muses of the destiny
to come.

To know is to want to forget;
martian soil, it’s been heard,
harbors the key to wilted dreams.
There, they planted dead seeds,
and they grew into dust.

In dreams,
the horizon bleeds crimson:
silver plumes, spreading
their rosy petals, dance
like decaying umbrellas
in a wild pirouette.

The spirit will retreat,
the flames ceasing to listen;
they will feed
until suicide stops
their lungs from reaching.
We are not so different.

In the ash of
its broken reveries,
the spirit will dream
of real stars:
searching the heavens
freely for their purpose,
enchanted by the
dance of true horizons,
left to the questions
of their own destinies.

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