poem10 Sep 2018 08:00 am

The shadow-man-outside-the-airlock,
in our sleep,                 walks outside our cave.
He shuffles,                   scrapes dead sticks,
pretends to be the wind, pretends
to be other                    than our dim selves –
glitch in our evolved mindware.

The man-creature-outside-the-airlock,
spider-eyed,                    dressed in bones,
alien                                in the flesh,
glowers, growls, and shakes a graven stick.
We have come                 to meet him.
Yet our shadow infests us.

Bogeymen still bewilder
us starmen.                    It is hard,
amidst our familiar ghosts,
to assay the alien,
to hear the voice            above the wind.
Eyes open, open the door.

illustration from Stories of Beowulf by Henrietta Elizabeth Marshall, 1908
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