The Awakening

I would rather the fire-storms of atmospheres
Than this cruel descent from a thousand years of dream
Into the starkness of the capsule
Where two of our crew still lay suspended cool
In their tombs of sleep
The nagging choirs of memory
The tubes and wires worming from their flesh
To machinery
I would have to cut

Such midwifery is but one
Function of the leader here
Floating in a sac of fluid dark
A clear century
Of space away from Earth
While one man stirs from the trauma of his birth
Attending to the hypno-tapes
Assuring him that this is reality
However grim
Our journey's end

Landing itself was nothing
We touched upon a shelf of rock
Selected by the automind
And left
A galaxy of dreams behind