Now
that there truly are
no
new worlds
left to conquer
when the last
meterorite
has been mined out
when natural timber is
barely
a
memory
And the metallic hulk of the last
ship
rots
The first pilgrims
lie in repose gagging
on a cocktail of
sewage
and stale beer
sent forth by
the nearby industries
the debris and
detritus
of long-sated
desires
crowns their
mausoleums
alongside the thorny
frieze
like their shiny
beds
the skin of the
camp children
glistens
in the poison air
Among the
living
those still with
wealth
beyond the obsolete
currencies
barricade themselves behind
30-foot steel
they content themselves with
Netflix reruns and
synthetic
ice cream
No one moves
nothing matters
The dream
seemingly perished
twinkles
like a yet
unnamed
galaxy
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