On the first day
I walked over a virginal beach of glass
Burnt cold with the icy glare of a dead sun
On the second moonrise
I reached the edge of the red sun
Blinking tiredly over the yellow pockmarked planet
On the third rise of dawn
I looked up into the trapped eyes of the man
Draining his life-blood on my expensive Turkish rug
On the fourth burst of first light
I looked askance at the walking green
Lolling sideways with each passing twirl of wind
As the fifth day bled into symphony
Each red drip like the stealthy stroke of soft percussion
Each paper cut like the fine chords of the deaf master’s opus
The sixth day struck; And –
I wandered past the mechanical junk of eyes and limbs
Obsolete; with their masters long buried in decaying stench
As the sixth day wound down
I mourned the bitter arrogance of a youthful species and
Took issue with the smugness of old deities for letting things come to such a pass
And there was no seventh day comfort for a mortal
3 years ago
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