The scream of agonized ecstatic rebirth
goes unheard on orbital Earth,
only a brief streak, a fiery sight
marks the death of a friendly light.

High above, patrolling the levels of Inner Space,
exists a crystallized gas breed of some god’s grace,
protecting this planet from Chaotic debris,
their duty ingrained, part of their creed.

Small and arrow-shaped, they swoop and swarm;
their radared eyes, keen as swords,
they speak in zings, they live to sing
patriotic dirges, of death on glorified wings.

Their enemies are metal based, swift
and sturdy, pitted, remolded with a gift
for destruction, in packs or alone,
their goal, to batter and break orbal-type bones.

Being strictured, metals have muted intelligence,
only base instincts to maim and crush,
fulfilling their destiny, not able to design
who they’d be, trapped under stereotyped lines.

Regardless of births and different fates,
our crystal beings confidently wait,
their religion proscribes a heaven at death,
a chance to fly through galactic breadths.

With eagerness to sacrifice Now,
to gain the door to God and grow,
they target their incoming cousins,
confident in their abstracted reasons.

The rest of the tale is sad to story,
Eternity created a game, in no hurry,
chuckling with glee, as we fail to see
behind the curtain, where It holds the key.

Erin Moen
10/26/03
Copyright 2003 ©

This poem and related concepts are copyright © Erin Moen 2003, and may not be reproduced in part or in whole without the author's express permission.