Sent out with nary chance nor choice
A tin capsule hurtles through the frigid black,
Carrying that which is humanities last hope,
held together with PlaSteel and spit.
The Spacer, now comfortable in their unease,
peers through the port.
How many planets had passed?
How many chances for home?
They reclined and smiled.
Why bother when you’re moving at the speed of light?
