In corners of the sphere,
children eat raw grass for nourishment
and wear a beard of flies.
In corners of the sphere,
children stare into an opulent middle distance:
an alien nation bereft of empowerment.
In corners of the sphere,
children are breached in their own beds,
cursed forever by the smell of pillows.
In corners of the sphere,
children are driven to destroy other children:
at gunpoint, behind gunpoint.
In corners of the sphere,
children are driven to destroy other children:
bullying and sullying, trolling and controlling.
In corners of the sphere,
children are listening to the chants of demons,
trapped in a soundproof zorb.
Tumbling through the void of space
doesn't smooth these corners off,
doesn't relieve the scratching.
Meanwhile, in the final
undiscovered corner of the sphere,
there's a janitorial storeroom
stocked with flashlights
and music
and kindness
and peace
and safety
and respect
and food.
Generations have believed in a power from beyond the sphere,
but the real power is already ours.
(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018
