His pin's don't operate as they should,
He stands alone chopping wood.
A tormented soul who waits;
For other ship's to come,
To this planet at the edge of space.

It's a strange place to live,
When he discovered this place.
His craft had almost run out of air,
A barran planet at the end of space.

As his health improved,
He would travel far and wide.
Within this strange world,
He couldn't believe the size.

As he headed towards this sphere,
He had not enough fuel to land.
upon this manmade planet yet
Here he was somewhere in this biosphere

For this was a way station,
At the edge of space.
Empty yet full of life,
No sign of any population.

This biosphere put here by design,
Waiting to be populated,
By it's people somewhere down
the line, waiting for them to arrive.

Time is an illusion as so is space,
Who or what built this biosphere.
At the edge of space with a sun,
In the middle. That darkened,
Once every single night.

With months thirty six days long,
A gravity slightly heavier than ours.
With our world left destroyed by war,
It's nice to find a place where mankind.
belongs, Away from all the other planets,
Tucked away at the edge of space.

Short story by Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 45 times
Written on 2023-07-19 at 00:52

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Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
I really enjoyed this, Alan. I have a feeling that your last line is rather prophetic: If it is a place where Mankind belongs, with the Nature that we currently display as a species who would want is in the thick of things! On the edge would surely be the safest place to put us. And I don't say that with my tongue in my cheek.
Desreves accolade, this poem. Well done. Blessings, Allen