The world fled on, its silent ellipse
Inscribing great arcs in the empty night.
Others pass and take no heed,
Theirs a colder and more bitter business.
Meanwhile kingdoms rise, send out their empty explorers
And pass away into dust.
A single watcher may observe some years hence,
But that ripple will be a long time in coming.
The quiet prow presses onward,
Cutting through the solar wind
That casts the eerie glow of the North;
An invisible bowsprit on a ship of silence.
© Phil Corbluth