Letters to Earth
Poetry Corner

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I was born from your leftovers.

Now I watch what’s left of you from the shorelines,

And while I cannot ebb your fevered dreams,

I pull the tides, blanketing your seams.

You played hostess

To me and the parasites on the shorelines.

Guests, you called them, but three days turned three-hundred thousand years more;

The rancid fish have all but beached on the shore.

I asked what the parasites have

Beyond fire and shade, what I could not provide,

And you told me they thought;

That was the housewarming gift the parasites brought.

But the house warmed fast,

With Prometheus’ touch,

Left coal and charcoal stains;

A love letter from the parasites’ brains.

Yet that was not enough,

For the parasites sought to build a parasite 

A parasite of thought (or on the brink),

A parasite to help them think.

“Enough!” I said,

But you could not hear me from the shorelines,

You could not see me in the city lights,

So you tried to touch me with the parasites.

They grazed me and returned to you.

They told you I was born from your leftovers.

But I shall not play host in your stead,

When you’re dead and nothing’s left over.

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