In geologic time
the rocks do not object
when cut to Man's design
by rough and dusty hands
that build to giddy heights
for the crafty social climb
of yet another architect.
With stoic faith profound
and patience absolute
adrift on vulcan plates
they quake the solid ground
to crash his ego towers
and stone the astromancer
from launching at icy stars,
better dead as Mars
than cosmic cancer.

next poem
previous poem
Storyline Index page 1, 2, 3
Alphabetical Index page 2
Angelfire Home Pages
Absolute Background
Textures Archive

John Talbot Ross