Industrialism

How small I am,

as the great ships move,

hulking past,

their dulled metal would sound

like a scrape on stone,

if it spoke.

Huge shapes that erase the stars

from the sky,

eclipsed by the stench

of the death

that waits.

Why they eat worlds,

I do not know.

They cannot grow any larger,

yet,

They try.

These ships are not

even alive

anymore.

Nobody dares

to tell them.

These ships sail

upon the barren sands,

Still thinking they are

at sea.

And the echoes of the

songs of whales,

Still ring.

Softly.

They ring.