Updated: Mar 12
I am a wanderer.
I am familiar with how the Milky Way sets
on the horizon, the way the universe dies,
the language of the stars.
Seen the world-top
from pink clouds and sipped
Flirted with comets.
I know that time is temporary. Yet
the reminder burns as I
place my fingers to the torrid dust,
breathe the decay.
The ground recoils at my touch.
of my footfalls reverberate through the planet
as if hollow.
This is what they used
to call Earth.
I can tell it is lonely.
Others like me have no desire to pay visit
to this once blue-green pellet that sits in oblivion.
A corner of its forgotten heliocentric system.
barren land and looming monsters that
brokenly splutter black smoke.
Never ending dunes of debris
soft between my toes.
This is a place God has abandoned.
is foreign to me. Yet
I am filled with it
at the sight of these armageddon red skies and
Walking in solitude
I explore slowly the sense of
Upon the one hundred and eighty fifth dune I
the silence dies.
I feel it instantly.
Sun catches silver, watch as a little creature
emerges from the yellow.
It is metallic, a box on four wheels.
Creature holds a flower.
I greet it.
Creature tilts its crane
as if it were a child.
“Robot.” It beeps hesitantly. “Robot.”
Sand shifts under its wheels.
Robot contemplates, then plants the rose
into the ashes.
“It will die,” I tell it.
“No,” Robot replies.
And after, I follow its trail.
As we cross the
Weathered rib cages
Robot keeps on planting.
Four letters engraved
into its shell—
I learn that its name is H O P E.
H O P E is the legacy of mankind.
Of an era
now dead and buried.
Charged with the adornment of an empty shell,
tending to a sleeping garden.
With the await of a new age.
“Why?” I ask.
Life is dead. It will not come back.
“One day.” H O P E replies.
It continues to say this for fifty decades.
One night, H O P E makes Fire.
From night till dawn, I sit.
Listening to its hiss,
feeling its burn.
I have not seen Fire before.
Stings my insides as I breathe, bears a tang
of poison and pure heat.
It smells like life.
Shadows against the walls of the cave,
I am encapsulated in its dance.
“Tell me about the humans.” I whisper.
And it does.
It spins me a history.
Not of demise, misery, of their fall from grace.
Not black fumes and broken glass on which
It tells me of the beginning.
The discovery of fire, the first man to see his reflection