Poetry

It takes billions of years
for ancient light to reach us and
rescue the trapped darkness.
 
You can hunt among rocks
in the palisades, behind
the ramparts.
 
There was an apocalypse.
 
Stem cells were ready
to repair the myelin―
searching ancestry.
 
It was a tense stand-off
between the headstone and a living dead.
 
Cannot repay the debt of blue
Sky, sending us
the warnings of catastrophy.