Site icon Arnav Sibal


This poem was originally published on 14 August 2016.

Could you report,
We find your log empty;
We cannot read you,
And the days gone by are plenty.

Could you report,
We command communication;
We see no malfunction,
Do not abandon your station.

This is Spaceman,
Log one.
My findings are aplenty,
And I hope when you read it,
You’ll be stunned.

There is no ground control,
I struggle to strike matches,
To light up the stars,
For the massacred masses.

They pray for shooting stars,
But they’re met with gutless guns.
Odell was right about the constellations,
They’re different – each one.

This is Spaceman,
Log two.
I see paper towns crumpling,
Creased and stained,
With dust and dew.

They mastered origami orchestras,
But forgot what words can do.
I believe dictionaries,
Are being badly misused.

Wild fire has taken pupils,
The world has been made an ashtray,
Cigarettes smashing down,
An addiction to outrage.

This is Spaceman,
Log three.
You commanded communication,
Yes, Houston, we have a problem,
It requires both sides to speak.

This is Spaceman,
Log four.
Shit has hit the fan.
There’s blood on the floor.

This is Spaceman,
Log five.
In their attempt to create divisions,
They blurred every line.
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