human,
not quite human.

like us,
they are forever frozen in eliptical orbit
of the sphere where hell hath risen.

look up,
they view tiny totems of prospective intelligences.
hoping to death that the intelligent aren’t indifferent.

look down,
green vegetation overwhelms otherwise barren land,
which they possess no desire to cover with modern monoliths.

look within,
technicolour images are held amid each and every not quite mortal brain.
for on gliese 581 it is customary to accept marbles as eyes and the sun as a soul.

the only thing they ****
is the darkness that defines the earthling psyche.

“does this make them human?”

what is human?

the grey man in the stars

tells me my greatest flaw is that
i am both a creator and a destroyer.

and as the rain takes hold,
the heaviness subsides.

i feel like i’m waiting on nuclear stardust,
to make it’s indiscriminate remark on all of
mankind.

there is something calming about
electric discharge embellishing the heavens,
acoustic echoes plaguing solitary eardrums.

humility, apathy, reality.
their colours run
becoming one...
a sort of dingy brown.

i’d always assumed the shade of the universe
would be a little more obscure.