It may be too late for us.
Our lungs burn brighter with each breath
and we are too used to blowing smoke from
between obsidian teeth.
Slipping out from singed lips until our eyes sting.
Maybe the stars will shelter our empty husks.
But they’re likely all long dead.
Their SOS signals mistaken for twinkling.
Reaching us too late,
they died off thinking we didn’t care.
Alone in the final throes of our solar system,
we may obtain some small solace in the stars.
Now just skeletons in the shapes of constellations.
Tombstone moons lining the aisles of our excursion.
Our only hope will be find their crypts
and respect the dead.
Apologize for abandoning them in this expanding isolation.
We must plead forgiveness from their children.
Embittered and vacuous.
still coasting on the reputations of their majestic ancestors.
Too dense to comprehend our regret,
they will remain content binging.
Complacent in their misery.
With no home for our roaming bones we must discover other suns.
Still signaling in the distance.
We won’t make it in time.
The insatiable silence of space will cradle our corpses.
Rock us gently through the cosmos.
We will erode.
Scattered slowly through the vast expanse.
We will all be silt,
Twisted double helix,
Glimmering in the
Dying embers of crying giants.
-Ben N McCabe