The Lost Flight of Hope
A spaceship called Hope... made from future's grand mist,
is perched upon a launch pad of manic chemicals, and loss.
With stun gun emotion, mother earth regurgitates.
5-4-3-2-1
Her metal finger meets the button...
she releases her ballast...
Blast off!
My brain engulfing G forces.
Soon to become a mustard seed
in the speed of light garden.
Filled with gravid redheaded planets,
giving birth to fat-headed moons.
The stars are cheering, like starving mad islanders.
Light years have passed.
Ground control has lost contact.
(by choice or by accident).
The rations are depleting,
but I'm serene in a starry tranquility...
I've blown by a million past lives.
Apologized half-heartedly to an alien God.
Who wished me well, pointed toward a giant black hole.
Then disappeared into the vapor trail
of lost potential and cachexic hope.
Its eerily over.
There's no more virgin oxygen.
Only the stale argon of saints and tyrants,
casting shadows of black hallucinations
chanting:
"Little seed...little seed...Didn't you know this was a one-way flight?"
I gaze out a stained-glass window for the last time.
Church bells are ringing from the parched throat of time.
Four golden letters peel from the side of the star dusted ship.
Satiating the madness of stars...
"Little seed...little seed."
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2014
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