PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

On that undesignated afternoon, I watched you

walking about that fifteenth of the seventeen

known puddles that still remain on the face of the

earth.  The ever-bloating sun's crimson light,

behind you as you seemed to stop, still as

debris, such that you seemed like a two dimensional

plane.  On your sturdy tripod of legs, you

stooped down to gaze at the brackish water, its

slick surface tension reflected in your

four eyes, so busily occupied that both your

foreheads began to ache with that historic pain

called by the most ancient of ancients---migraine.

How in Haedus should I know what happened to the

moon?  Perhaps it was snatched away toward the

ever swelling sun, engulfed like Mercry and Veen

was---visible one moment, then gone forever the

next.  Perhaps it was lured toward Jupiter, which

always seems to hover on the verge of ignition.

Wipe the drool you delightedly drip from your

many mouths before it digusts me?  Or do you

have those four hands only for the quadrupal

twiddle of your doubly jointed seven thumbs?

Starward