PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

No one dies here.  Nothing changes here.  The

only souvenirs we can obtain are ourselves---

worthless, abandoned, neither missed nor sought in

any effort to effect even the most casual rescue.

Most of the time, we huddle around fires

that burn slowly on the few sticks of kindling

that we can find buried in the ice;

seems that so much is actually preserved by the ice.

We lap at the drip from icecycles that provide

sufficent water and nutrients to continue

our existence, such as it is.  The skies are

always dismal gray:  this planet's star cannot be

directly observed, but only inferred from the

dimness of the day which is different from the

dimness of the night.  Yes, our trans-port was

not of the trans-starboard class.  We complained, and

often, about the stiffness of the seats, the hardness of the

beds, the constant turbulence and the lack of 

celestial views.  The food was flavorless and bland; the

drinks were not mixed well, and weak; the

stupors in which we sought a respite from this reality

were only temporary, while the hangovers hung over us for

such extended durations; and no headache pills from the

infirmary, or do they still call it sick-bay?  All of the crew,

including the pilot, were manufactures of the Row-Bot class

(trans-starboards never, ever, deploy them for passenger

service).  Our pilot was apparently unable to process

sufficient physics to divert the ship from its drop into---and

skid upon---and crash against this planet, its ice far more

titanic then our vessel (never, ever book passage on a

trans-port class).  We are apparently unable to process

sufficient metaphysics to explain the presence of our

mangled corpses---mere cadavers now---which no

decomposition can eradicate; each maintaing the

hysterical posture of its ejection upon the ice.

Starward