By Ryan Moulton1
When evening comes, it asks us if we’ll trade
the sun for lights of a billion distant stars.
The warmth escapes the lattices we’ve made
to where the breath within you freezes, scars.
Within your eyes I want to leave a mark
with words and arms to wrap your crumbling fears
of human lights that fade into the dark.
In the world I see, the distance disappears.
Arcologies soar. The dataflow will tell
the sweat and dreams of those who never rest,
and you and I grow happy, old, and well.
So when the vastness claws within your chest,
then take the Good Book, trade it on the shelf.
Build your own hope. Take it for yourself.