The Locusts

calling himself

a discoverer,

man goes searching

for those bodies

he can bring within

realm of ownership,

resources that might

benefit all mankind.

Yet, there are those

who stay beyond his reach,

undetected by his instruments,

pulsing in voices

of unknown frequencies

black static deafening

man to translate nonexistance.

Those seeding distant wombs,

feel man's warring drumbeat

echo oblique walls

sequencing dark space,

invasive boomeranging probes

their gravity expells, 

man's far off energy in

wire humming up through

hungry holes hoping to branch

cold fingers of examination's

sampled cells;

taste scrapes strange child's flesh,

a simple study:

does it feel my pain?

Is it like me?

For man objectively believes

he is the standard

of all intelligent life.

With unseen wings,

there are those who move

in light years away from us,

whispering misinformation

to sycophantic satellites,

listening to Earth's slow blue sorrow

as they pass.

Below,

entrepreneurial surgeons consult

sharpening their tools.

The moon is near enough

to harvest.

Each night she gives her light

of dread; the day they come

with drills to mar the beauty

of her face.

The atmosphere cannot console her.

On the ground men fight like ants

over a crumb dropped

from a bird's mouth

flying South in December.

Somewhere, a young scientist

will wonder,

is there life out there?

Intelligent life, like me?

Somewhere out there,

where I can't yet reach or see?

And life out there says,

we must beware,

they're not as stupid as they seem.

Like locusts they will come.

Like locusts.