The forests of our tribal past are paved
with suns and stars that we have made to see
the world that never goes dark and is saved
by minds of those wish for silence, free.
The fetid, stagnant air waits, hesitates
for diamond rain to cleanse the atmosphere
and in the night, my spirit deviates
locked in the weight of superficial fear.
Encased in iron, glass and plastic feats
in proof of steps our kind has longed to make,
sometimes I dream of clear, darkened retreats,
of black so deep it lures me in, to wake.