PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

A man collected all sorts of jeans
that people had worn in ancient scenes,
bygones; and other souvenirs
from other ages, he hoarded with tears
and nostalgic sighs.
We laughed at him, to no one's surprise.
He offered, politely, to share
a glimpse of his treasures.  None could care
about his collection of junk
stored in several lockers and one forefeited trunk.

But then the strangers came
from some distant star; then from behind our moon.
And our defenses were stricken and, lame,
gave way to defeat.  All too soon
they celebrated on our high places,
and took us as slaves to outer space's
far reaches and there (how it hurts and stings)
performed on us disgusting, unspeakable things.
And we were human garbage, from birth
to death.  Our lives were cancellations and voids.
Then, they shattered the earth
into a thousand smaller asteroids.
And no one asked after the man who collected
those trinkets and souvenirs---none protected
from the wrath of the grim, expressionless alien strangers
who conquered us.  They only enjoyed
the hour when something had been destroyed,

and all the tortures we suffered, and our lives' dangers.

Starward