This moon was a planet just like earth,
Only it is even deader.
The pistols of its flowers are the only protection
Against insects, which were
More preoccupied with the
Half-rotted inhabitants soiled to the brim
Under their own garments.
History tells us of their blood
Flowing down one leg and up the other.
Memories insoluble to their conscience,
Memories outside themselves in a twisted prank
Played upon them by dogs
Tired of chasing their food.
Thin oxygen curves their posture substantially.
Flashes of their purpose
Stripped to skeletal ornaments
Of meat and resin from animal marks
Flicker over the loudscreen.
Machines hum quietly in the distance.
A few naive inhabitants wander
Foolishly after sundown
In search of black spots,
But no one leaves this moon carefree of memory.
Survivors often match their hands upward
Towards greater satellites,
Wronged in the eyes by a million miles
And a million more bodies to sift through.
The smaller creatures have the secret
To pinning us down to the dirt:
When they breathe, they inspire.
When we breathe, we expire.
