Two suns,
Glare into the depths of the red sand,
Headlights screaming of an ever delayed onslaught,
Yet only void lies behind,
And the onslaught is already upon the scorched rouge in its radiant glow,
The rolling crimson clings tense around the asteroid,
Lining the mosaic rock with rippling tendons,
A boy sits glum in the rippling rygo-sand,
Tendrils of piping dress his helmet like tribal locks,
And spray painted cannisters extend from his back like sprawling limbs.

Mouth agape by dying star,
And it glows red with raging swansong,
Bristling the rygo-sand,
Washed in awe: the young boy long gone,
Nestled in a weaving mesh,
Of pipes and tubes that make strong hollow bones,
And cowards face the wrath of giants boiling.