Contagion on Solar System Eleven

This god damned awful thing which
Squats before you, hairless, craven,
Stupid, is a human. Wash your hands
Before you leave. These creatures
Are dead ends. They speak. A few
Of them can innovate, but most find
Learning difficult. They much prefer
The superstitions poured into their
Tiny minds when they were young.
They dream of some great spirit
Who observes them from up in the sky.
They hate those who dream different
Spirits, hate those whose skins
Are not either light enough or dark
Enough, and hate those whose behaviors
Deviate from what (how strange is this?)
Their made-up spirit has been said
To say are rules. These creatures multiply
Without restraint. Their waste has poisoned
Everywhere they've gone. Their
Way of living warms their world.
In time, and not a lot of it, they will
Have made this planet one on which
They cannot live. You may keep one
Or two of them as specimens,
But, otherwise, exterminate this dreadful
Species. Then, go wash your hands.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 27 times
Written on 2020-01-09 at 02:20

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