The science of the future.

So Demur didn’t call out,

His voice stood there, motionless,

Grinning too,

Like a drained and gutless boar,

Nobody played the piano,

And there were no white horses.

 Blood gasped softly upon the ceiling,

Thin copper metal bubble, unburst,

Some were breathing, still, shallow beating,

Moronic remnants of their own forever.

Mushrooms growing out of split peas,

Malignant melanoma upon molecules,

Just feasting on and slurping away,

A liquid banquet of putrid skin.

Jolly forces reclaiming the stolen ground,

Gone, the boozer with the heavy forehead,

With the hapless voice, always whispering,

In the universal language of the cosmos,

Green vegetation on the blackboard of,

The blind one with his microscope.

Nobody protested,

Sighed or wept as,

They picked up their beakers,

 And their flasks, and accelerated,

And departed,

Through the walls,

And into the nothing,

In their reptilian trend.

Hopeless and unwilling,

They perceived a desperate quest,

To pierce the void, the abyss,

The gaping space between,

The world and its meaning.

“For sure,

There must be

Somewhere,

Some,

Neutrino,

Still out there?”

Nothing for ages,

They stopped to stare,

 At their bloodless hands,

And rubbed them on their bodies,

So red and callused and redundant.

“What is this thing,

Relentlessly burning above our heads?”

With nothing worth believing in,

There was no reason to keep on harvesting,

Redundant knowledge for their robot brains.

But as any good old neurotic would,

They just kept on going.