Amalthea

travel lightly,
the old man instructs machine;
light years passed --
towards the white horizon.

distant voices
travel swiftly, and
the black monolith of man
constructs playgrounds;
to blast towards the sun.

whisper, whisper
this mysterious land;
vast discovery for all,
but what will succumb?
the deadly hollows,
or time burnt in the sun...

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed