by Peter Newman
I tire of them.
Generation after generation, all the same, always asking, never listening. Humanity fails to inspire.
Arms reach upwards, spindly spears, brown and pale, bruise-mottled, desperate.
“Help us!” they say.
Obligation weighs deathly on my shoulders. With great power comes great drudgery. Once an oracle now a shepherd, I show them the only paths left.
One mouth moves, shaping the panic of many. “We’re running out of time!”
Reflected in my eyes are the husks of stars, stillborn.
I could have made worlds with them, unfolded minds into dream sails, glittering.
The clock ticks, too late.
Author Bio: I write, I run, I work, I sometimes remember to smile.
Stories & Blog here: www.runpetewrite.com
Banter here: @runpetewrite