Incandescent fragment of prescience,
A copper-wound magnet of lament.
Carved of grey-matter granite,
Oft expected to break orbit,
Greedy dwellers grasp,
Take for granted,
Skull above and pulsing blood beneath.
That heart, a pounding Eclectic Dynamo,
Makes demands, sends them to and fro.
Ricochet above and below,
Rogue Planet dwellers’ Panic sewn,
Sowed, stitched among the rows,
Fertile harvest, perhaps the Lotus,
Embroidered, hot copper,
Each, all, brow does glow.
© All rights reserved, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.