Broken bits of glass

Poem by Marc Aupiais

I look to us, in this world, a quarter past modern, on this day in some millennium,
I look to us, you with your broken glass of tea, thrown to the ground,
And I ask, that you post some reply to my side.

I drive on the broken roads, and look at the lost vehicles of left and right.
I glance up at the sky, but the stars keep changing, and the heroes fade to dust by dusk.
A cloud covers near every bright light. We hardly see them in the drought ridden skies.

And in the desert of our post-dead love, I wonder at the comfort of darkness, of blackness,
Of the veil which is post this modern.

Your warmth keeps me warm at night, I am cold though in a desert,
And with the over-joy of desert heat,
Comes the cold night, which punctures my very soul.

I look at us, to us, in us.

And I wonder at this, how easily did we post, modern world of ours,
And was that itself, any better,

Than the Arctic death of all reason,
As we cry that the sky is fallen.

But it's long turned to stone.
And soon, shall we too be but dust! Hair... bone.
If we are not (perhaps even forcefully, due to lack,
If we are not: icily)

... now then: with sustaining the graves:
As many past dead: cremated!