Planet of the Apes

Planet of the Apes

When the sky turns bruised‑purple and the trees begin to speak,
the colonies of primates have found a new world to seek.
A colourless dawn, the quarry of old, now bids it all cease,
while apes march in formation over town‑steam with quiet peace.

The tower of glass, a monument to a time of glitz,
now stands upon a troop’s ambition: a wordless, braid‑hushed blitz.
Humour, once a score in the late‑night club, is now merely a bark,
and the bones of the banter have folded into tropical dark.

The citizens of a city are torn from their everyday kiss,
left with a bronze-era map and the strange notion of sufficiency.
They watch their own hands, a pale reflection with a nervous fumble,
as thunderous drum‑beat decides each day’s critical huddle.

On the far side of the horizon, a basilisk of a simian mind,
tells this looping story of an empire that was left behind.
It becomes the keeper of the new rite, the honest, slow‑paced,
oblivious smile of a zoo‑keeper who knows how to be grey.

The weight of humanity, that still lingers, hits softer than
a bullet; it gets loath to take hold, to speak more love than.
The culture of a life once a puzzle and now a joke,
will return erstwhile owners of this spattered, gleaming halo.

And so the planet is ours, or at least in the hand of these hounds,
that show humanity no more, only a page in the world, unfound.
Yet a distant echo of love sings through the afternoon light:
the old world’s candle flickers, a flicker of bravado in the night.