The Exiles

 by Brett Rutherford

The sun is lost.
The planets just tag along.
No one knows where
this all will end.
The exile’s lot:
to eat odd food,
to be shouted at
in tongues as strange
as animal calls,
to dwell unwelcome
where even the sky
is unfamiliar.
Blood moon, boxed clouds,
whirlwinds menacing,
alien insects
and unpronounceable
afflictions.
A shaken fist, a howl
as a crowd gathers
with torches menacing.
Only a few,
exiles already
in their own minds,
extend a hand in welcome.