Darkened by Fire
Jan 22 2024
We used to live in caves.
Ochred hands
pressed to cold stone walls,
smoke
darkening the ceiling.
In the far reaches
in total darkness
there are piles of discarded bones,
what's left
of millennia of prey.
Or was it burial rites?
Human sacrifice?
The ancient hunters themselves?
Living underground
huddled in caves
in the dank and chilly damp,
where the only source of light
is precious fire.
Where my hand, pressed against the wall
matches perfectly;
like reaching back
across incomprehensible time
to touch an ancient one-on-one.
So what will we have left
to our distant descendants,
presuming anyone even remains?
A thin stratum
in the geological record
of molten metal
micro-plastic
radioactive waste.
And because bronze is indestructible
some monumental sculptures
and the busts of famous men.
Whom no one will remember
or care about
in the coming post apocalypse.
Perhaps bones,
marked by machete scars
and bullet marks
and countless traumatic breaks
that only partially healed.
Or darkened by fire
from when the evidence was burned.
But nothing to make them feel
our common humanity.
No simple artistry.
No faith in posterity.
No single hopeful soul.
No indelible hand,
reaching out
from a distant past
in a wilful act of hope.
All I had was the first line and an image to go with it, and thought I'd play around and see if it would take me anywhere. As usual — and I kind of regret this — it ended up in a dark place of despair. Why do so many of my poems end up there?!!
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