The Awakening

I’d rather the fire-storm of atmospheres
Than this cruel descent from a hundred years
Of dream, into the starkness of the capsule.
Two of our crew still lay suspended, cool
In their tombs of sleep. The nagging choirs
Of memory, the lenghts of tube, and wires
Worming from their flesh to machinery
I would have to cut. Such midwifery
Is just one function of the leader here:
Floating in a sac of fluid dark, a clear
Century of space away from Earth.
One man stared from the trauma of this birth
Attentive to the tapes asssuring him
This was reality, however grim:
Our journey’s end. The landing itself
Was nothing. We just touched upon a shelf
Of rock selected by the Automind.
And left a galaxy of dreams behind…