that is all, a poem by planet p

Disclaimer I don't own The Drone of the World or any of its characters.


twinkling, twisting: stillness inside, stillness out

glinting off water, glancing off stone

so very still

quick, like the whip

still, but moving even then

blinding white, abrasive, scouring, cleansing light


to walk, I walk, I go


houses, shops, glass fronts, dusty and not

pass me by

I pass them by, in turn

no glances shared

we do not look at one another

though we know


we know each other

I go


I walk on

lonely sound: my footsteps make

but I am not so lonely

not here


it is inside

inside of me, the problem

did it start within? or come from out? without?

i have no answer

to this riddle

do you know?

i could stop

and peer into a dusty window

looking for an answer

but you would not reply

I would not reply

watching myself, my own eyes

watching themselves

in the glass and dust

i would still

have no answer


this thing is broken;

if not broken, damaged

too badly to mend, to fix up again

it is without purpose now;

no, that isn't true

is it?

it is... useful for nothing, but not...

not just yet


it exists

it is

its purpose

is merely to exist

presuming it has a purpose

or knows it has

should have-

it is me:

broken, unable to move on, to go back, to function as instructed, as laid out in the instructions for life

am I alive?

but, of course

of course I am


but what else?

that is all.

that is all.