Energy and mass,
behind space-hardened glass:
a blast from the past,
and gift from the last,
generation that lived,
and might be forgived,
for the evils they did,
and the madness they hid.
But for now we speed on,
thinking of stars gone,
and suns we’d prolong,
if only with bong.
For even eternity’s short,
within proper court,
the kind we hold closed,
and kiss like a rose’d.
For in the end,
we have been a friend,
to those far behind,
though never in mind.
For we’ve blazed the trail,
both hands off the rail,
and even those yet to come,
will benefit greater than some.
Fear of our future’s passed,
from wisdoms amassed,
though frightful the mass,
of energy-glass,
and the sounds of vacuum,
or the silence it assumes,
for no matter the danger,
we’ve met no strangers.
And instead only greatness,
which in our wake’s less,
when matched with what,
we see ahead but,
is ever beyond,
our primordial pond.
So we carry on,
every surging,
ever anon.
Wordsmith of Sol 