Birthright
- Paul Clive
- May 2
- 1 min read
The true scale of the machine
That ponderous maw
Open, out underneath us
Under the sand and the weight
I saw the black skies
Light up like Christmas
The first time they
Shut it off
You went one way
And I went another
But I'm just like you
I'm just like you
In that silence
When the whole world blinked
The sky was alive
Liquid
A birthright denied
Future restricted
Value determined
Predestined
Productive
How much blood?
How much do you give
To the machine?
To keep it,
Running
Keep it alive
Vital?
Every junction
Every black box
Every record of your life
A little performance review
Held in suspension
Above this sphere
Are so many other worlds
It bends the mind
But you don't get to see them
The whole thing starts again
The stars go into hiding
And you keep your head down
Birthright
For the people of Junction 117-B there are no stars. Just the regulation sixteen hours of daylight. Just the tunnels. Just the gears, the oil, the hum, the terminals. Except for one day when something goes wrong and for just a few moments the machine has stopped.
The lights are off.
The sky comes to life with a sea of stars spread across that velvet expanse. Infinity takes a breath. And those people get a momentary reminder of what has been taken from them.
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