The Wounded

With a lit­tle hiss
Like an effer­ves­cent pill
Drift­ing away and away
But still
Cling­ing to him with invis­i­ble strings
She always looked back
To the lands of her dreams.
A con­sign­ment of robots
With rub­ber souls
And sev­en months pre matures
Tar­nished her liq­uids
And tread­ed her robes
Of white frosts.
The cun­ning smiles
With cig­ars in their hands
Tamed her wilds
Into snares and chains.
The veld fires and acid rains
Reduced her greens
Into blis­tered orange sheets.
Her very core
Exca­vat­ed
Only left her with bleed­ing pores.
In your space suits
With adjust­ed sails
You are ready to wade
To unknown lands.
But why are you still cling­ing to her skele­tal cores
With umbil­i­cal cords?
Moan­ing and cry­ing over her scars
She, who once, was a par­ti­cle of a star.