If the Moon were just a stone,
waiting to be carved,
into someone’s jewelry;
And the Sun, a smolten golden orb,
cast right now,
from the furnaces of alchemy;
And us, a tumble-stone of blue life,
that sits its place,
in a complex box intended to display finery.
Would our guns and rockets still mean as much?
Would we care for all the spilled blood?
We can take all the time to imagine
this life’s reality…
But can we afford to be wrong.
And still find solace, in all we did.
© soulreserve 2015