This dessicated path
is an off-white scar
under the moon’s phase
of waxing gibbous
Boots and tamed dogs
have worn this route
into a grass-bare map
which I read by that light
The holding flightpaths
of man-made meteors –
of ephemeral accords –
circle among the clouds
The transmitter mast blinks
with a beast’s red eye
shaming Arcturus and Mars
so even those stars fade
This as the bypass hums
a song of our war won –
our tilt against creation
by over engineering
A sideshow, a bit part of the story,
in a galaxy far, far away;
never closer to any ending,
and Troopers’ aim, as ever, astray:
Rough Rebels yell loudly for glory,
with occasional laughs at their knobs –
lit buttons pressed too randomly,
but, still they do the job.
A gathering of weird alien species,
stood around their circular table,
future knights, again myth-making,
think the Force is more than capable.
With a cameo from a long-dead actor,
heavy breaths from the ever-buffed Darth,
Rogue One sits nicely in the box set,
big returns on a brand we all love.
I never saw her selfies,
just those last few camera shots,
on her lonesome way
to 67P’s hardened rocks:
I’m sure she had worked well,
that little spacey probe,
but always doomed to crash
on an indurate comet’s slope;
a mess she must’ve made
on the speeding icy mass,
hurrah for humanity,
we’ve littered more of space!
