Mother Ship

Deep in the folds of space
It gleams its steady light,
Pulsing welcomes to all
The returning ships,
Sending farewells to those
Leaving towards the night.

It never asked to be there
But is - grown thick and fat
With slowly gathering
Dust, year in and year out,
Its joints creaking with rust
Like an old acrobat.

It doesn't remember
What there was before,
Or how it all started,
Who got the decks mounted,
Entrances and exits
Charted, or why the door

Whirring open or shut
For perpetual traffic
Seems to be its only
Recognizable thought.
Is the dependence of
Others what's making it weak?

The accrued one-track mind?
Instransigence of time?
Or just some merciless
Universal scheme
As fixed and unforgiving
As predictable rhyme.