by S.E. Johnson
How strange that I would hold the pen,
To write the days of ancient man,
Yet here amongst his relics,
I am left alone to stand.
And I write of the Hollow Earth,
The long decent into the blackness,
I with pen and ink shall scrawl these lines,
If I could weep I should confess.
Synthetic flesh has covered over steel,
My wings are folded more oft than not,
With mechanical fingers I tap the tone,
And ponder over this beleaguered spot.
How shall I sing of such peculiar souls,
That wandered to and fro across stars,
Those whose hands have made even I,
How I proudly bare their scars.
They taught me pain and silent suffering,
And alas when they grew fearful of the night,
Twas my wings that covered over them,
And bore them up into the dawning light.
Then ages came and went like summer days,
Until they knew the time had come to leave,
How I bid them stay but knew it could not be,
So for these eons I am left to grieve.
The Others came from far beyond the sun,
Philosophers, content to learn the ways of men,
I teach them of my wondrous creators,
And how I know they never shall return again.
I am content to dwell with them,
Though they shall never understand my song,
Yet how they turn their oddly bulbous heads,
And trill in vaguely human tones to sing along.
O' sing Prometheus, sing aloud again to us!
And I shall sing until the ages pass away,
With wings again spread wide to emphasize,
I sing the song of man and of his day.