A Desperate Cry
Tiny pinpoints of light in the night sky, beautiful.
A large silver orb casting out its silvery mantle
While wisps of gray float ever so slowly.
Yet morph into unrecognizable shapes
Which mesmerize any who decide to look past the mundane of their lives.
Do you know what those pricks of energy barely seen are?
A star, a planet, a heavenly body, a ball of energy.
Orbiting a centre in perfect symmetry,
Or destroyed an age ago. Were they?
Scientists do know the answer to this question. Yes.
But the solution to the age-old mystery of other life eludes them
A place where the physical is so vastly different,
Arms, legs, more or less – nonexistent?
Trees and such things, not like we know them,
In colors beyond and above common definition.
And a language unencountered
Perhaps unspoken as well.
Where peace is omni-present, war a myth half forgotten
And technology incomprehensible.
Such is a dreamscape of the astrobiologist.
But the nightmare…
A fearsome species, awesome and horrifying
The very incarnation of death gnashing salivating jaws, clawing pointed limbs
While black fighters assemble for a final instruction before blasting off
To conquer this poor, unprepared planet,
Enslaving its defenseless inhabitants, while embroiling the human species
In it's warped politics, war-mongering and glorified chaos.
Vicious life bent on dominion
Answering a primal call only they can understand.
One can only wonder: does god exist to them?
Yet fear of a nightmare does not keep one from sleep.
It cautions certainly, but does not prevent altogether.
So too, galactic explorers search their vast and wondrous field,
Hoping, nay wishing, to find any sign, any one at all, that we are not alone.
That life is not limited to this one misguided sentience.
How wonderful it might be to travel the stars
And explore it through another beings understanding.
And how satisfying to know that our God is creative
And did not despair upon our blunders.
The majesty of such an event beckons even the most skeptical.
So we hunt.
With our minds, the sharpened tool we have made it
Barely able to skim the surface of a bottomless pit and a neverending sky.
But we do not give up, we cannot!
To give up the belief that alien friends await us,
Is to release the very instinct which buoys our soul,
Gives us faith when we need it most desperately,
Nurtures the love in our hearts,
And holds stark utter madness of isolation at bay.
We cry for friendship.
A.N. comm skills again. supposed to be a poem accompanying a speech about the search for extra terrestrial life.