All the New Gods

         Cankers open on the sullen sun, and the threaded sky turns purple in the shade of our blackened moon. The vines creep. Polides III-b mocks us at night, the only stargroup visible through the violet soup of Urytria's near-poisonous atmosphere. If we could reach Polides, we could see the Crown of Seven; from the crown we could ride the crease between Dolomi V and Rewtry-c, the Guidestar steady, leading us to the outskirts of Andromeda, bidding us farewell into the black empty plains stretching into the distant light of Gynamede like an eon. So close to home then, so close the Sack, then the Center, then the Sag. And then Sol.

         If we could burn our way through this greasy air, we would have a chance, we would have a chance for Polides. For home.

         But the rockets don't work here; combustion is repudiated by the virulent greens and lurid red vines, the creeping, clutching, insidious vines. We know them now, learned most of thier tricks and traps. We live with them, among them. Another day, another year, what does it matter? Polides laughs his way down horizon cruelly, knowingly out of reach, coy and mean.

         I am hoping the holes in this weary sun ionize the atmosphere. I am hoping it's dying, praying it takes these vines and gray stinking rivers and plum-soup air with it. The rockets are ready in case the corona breaks down completely; the optimism disgusts me. I know we're here to stay. I know we'll never look Polides in the eyes again. I know we're here to die.

         So I connect the last wires and wonder hopefully how much I can take with me as I go.