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We will not speak of gilded lilies, or chemtrails that swirled in the crimson sky. For your ancient handprints carry the things about myself I could not know, the unknown unknowns of bygone eras. A writing in the scorched red of earth that regales the story of absent generations, the tragedies of brighter stars. 

Foreign life has crept in softly, you press a sticky leaf against the sun; it is translucent with veins wetly throbbing. All the pebbles that hung about for the coming century turn to watch you with questioning eyes. And though the parched ground may sigh for a loss subtending, it …