Christopher Haywood Poet Rhyme

Notes About The Poem

Humanity has retreated into subterranean bunker pits, bound by territorial paranoia and mutual distrust while neighbors starve beyond blast-proof doors. 

Vaeloria Chapter 8 - The Static of Separate Dreams

In those dark eras of the split, to live was to be alone,
A calculated isolation chilling to the bone.
They hid inside their separate pits and hoarded what they kept,
While just beyond the blast-doors, all their starving neighbors wept.
Lysander watched a nearby vault collapse into the grime,
Their priceless banks of ancient seeds destroyed by mold and time,
Because they lacked the synthesis, the codes to make them grow,
Held by a hostile bunker just a thousand yards below.

They traded only in their scars and deep, ancestral dread,
A territorial madness that infected every bed.
The mind locked in a cage of concrete learns to hate the dark,
But hates the neighbor even more who carries still a spark.
Lysander saw the rot was not a scarcity of bread,
But the absolute division of the living from the dead.
The lonely mind was screaming out behind a wall of stone,
And so he took the broken blueprints time had left alone.

He did not build with iron wire, he did not work with brass,
For metal was the weapon of the executioner class.
Instead, he grew a softer thing along the dripping wall:
A bioluminescent moss that answered to his call.
A fibrous, pale conductor made of cellular design,
That mimicked how the brain-waves spark along a living line.
A living loom of emerald wool, a bright, organic lace,
To knit the fractured pieces of a broken species' face.

For twelve long years he labored there, a surgeon in the night,
He harvested his cortex for the seeds of golden light.
He took microscopic biopsies from his own thinking brain,
And spliced them into mossy veins to cultivate the strain.
He became the anchor node, the root within the deep,
And when he lay his crooked spine down on the floor to sleep,
The Sunken Spire would start to pulse, a soft and rhythmic gleam—
The first erratic heartbeat of a solitary dream.

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