by Nick Gisburne
The living ship, the Seeker, spits us out,
To visit some excruciating shore,
But even those who feed it, the Devout,
Are certain they have seen this place before.
A thousand worlds. No two should seem the same,
But each, in time, accelerates to this.
The civilised (a curse betrays the name)
Together march towards a grim abyss.
We see what we were always meant to find,
And make another disappointing note.
The Seeker leaves banality behind.
To meet with mediocrity, we float.
We seek a better place than those we passed,
But none is more enlightened than the last.
