Theatre of Space

 

 

            I cannot understand

Where the battle starts,

I am desperate to know

Why a battle starts at all?

            Are we here;–

Only to gain experience of war?

 

            I cannot decipher

Every meaning in an infants cry,

But why the cry we’re made,

Why the cry?

Why the cry?

 

            Our mother,

Our Dear Mother – a chain

Of heroes all gone before,

Seems so very tired in the twilight,

So desperate to rest and Father,

            Seems indifferent to the calling

Of the son whose only knowledge;

Is the wisdom that we are only here to fight!

Fight eagerly amongst ourselves

In Coliseums where escape has no

Alternative but death.

 

            Embryonic engineering

Manufactures children tailor made,

But babes born of worlds where

Battle breaks each soul begs a

Wondering of my heart;

                                      Why?

Why such disparate measures?

 

            Every second counts,

Every second a brand new baby’s born,

Even while the death throes of the mother

Makes time of living premature,

Time of death a certainty for the

Nursery named in haste – The Earth.

 

            Every second a baby leaves

A mothers womb,

(These children rarely grow),

And not too far away

Is the surety of end

Of Mother Earth,

But where within the Theatre of Space,

Where within the minds of those who

Class themselves as human,

Where within the Academy the Designers

Sit authoritatively;

                        Are six billion allowed their peaceful Home.

 

 

Michael J Waite 9^th June 2010.