Posthumous

There’d be no difficulty,
and I always thought of silence,
the great, grimy century,
the great vaulted corridor.
But, there’s a fundamental difference,
why I could never send my heart
where minds are noble and inspiring.
Humanity had lost its ancient gods,
put the catalyst back among its fellows,
shaking heads in amused triviality,
A mirror of infinite happenstance.
It was neither natural, nor spontaneous,
how many victories had we won?
Now, shrugged and sat upon
that aged wooden bench,
remembering the earth,
as the skies emptied,
and forever stared back
across that swiftly widening gulf,
turning our back on the dwindling sun.
Remember that, once,
we were the wild ones.

 

Poem © Phen Weston, 2016

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