A Parched Rock
by Odin Roark

How long ‘til…

Our mass of rock and water
hurtling through space
bears but a conscience-stripped semblance of man,
having reduced our sentient gift to
but a ghost of consciousness.

Like the crumbling of a run-down bar,
innate after-hours darkness
now invades our existence,
while we the bartenders, customers, or waiters
have become ghouls in the making,
back peddle around the tables,
straightening chairs,
washing glasses,
making like the lights are still on,
even as our “open” sign flickers its last gaseous breath,
its neon glitter exhausted,
its bright presence about to join
the endless darkness
where infinity’s planet-graveyard awaits.