Forsaken by the God-Star: Reflections of a Dying Xenomorph

The God-Star is greatly dimmed, from red to dwarfish white.
Nothing grows here anymore, deprived of food and light.

The planet is cracking up; sulfurous chasms abound.
Even our ancient caves are poisoned and unsafe ground.

I crawl to the wretched surface to catch the waning rays,
and somberly reflect on the coming end of days.

My head hangs heavy, can barely sense the dawn.
The teeth, though many, are almost all gone.

My arms and legs were once strong and stealthy.
The bones now cracked, they’re brittle and spindly.

I can hardly climb up the steep cavern wall;
always fearful, as my father died in a fall.

We engineered our genetic ascent, the fierce phases retained.
But the God-Star has forsaken us, our well-wrought powers drained.

Now a distant memory, gone is our slave race.
Oh what a garden they were; nothing went to waste!

The helots were bred with tiny limbs and capacious chests.
The nurseries were noisy, but the babies were the best.

Visitors from deep space stopped coming eons ago.
Caves and slaves were not for them, but how could we know?

As I bask in a final, feeble star-beam,
from across space, can anyone hear me scream?

Gary Davis likes all things classic horror. He has published Halloween short stories in Aphelion, Frostfire Worlds and Spaceports & Spidersilk (2016-2020). He has published poetry in Aphelion, The Vampire’s Crypt, Bloodbond, Illumen, Scifaikuest, Star*Line, Tales from the Moonlit Path, and two Lester Smith Halloween anthologies (2000-2021).

Find more by Gary Davis in the Author Index.

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