poem

I’m a house on the Oxfordshire road up the left, You are the one, Looking at me every day. Opposite each other, But one in heart. The families of old 17th and 18th century cottages,

Poems are an alternative way of how to put imagination into writing. And in the following one I have imagined a world of sentient tree like beings in a nitrogenic atmosphere with their conscious great but working in a different way and speed to what we may be used to.

For thee, dear Petri dish, Which supplies us knowledge, with culturing what we can not see, Thanks for the insights that enlighten us . Let us fill thee with agar,

Whale-ing around the cosmos on engines old and rusty, Stopping at clusters on the way, To trade, to live to breathe. For I am a whale, many miles long,

In the land of the free, Where you can do whatever you imagine, On condition, Of the holy chip inside your head. Whatever knowledge you want, At finger’s point,

When you look at yourself, In this modern day and age. Do you ever stop, To think to yourself? Do you ever stop, And see difference from the past?

Rotating slowly around axis of its own miniscule gravity, Small asteroid of mostly metallic mixture of elements, Just rotating round the giant planet made of gas, Radiating its interiors inside out.

Thousand years have passed since I woke from a slumber last time. Distress and confusion, always days or weeks till body adjusts. It takes time, for the brains and the functions to resume to it’s normal state.

For thy sun has long forgotten what it means to be alive, For he has scoured the skies with brothers of mothers unaccounted for. How long has been, since his eyes have saw,

Throughout the eons of yesterday’s, I have watched you. Watched your fiery soul develop, melt and burn. Reshaping through time forever more, forming bumps and cracks till flat ain’t no more.