My heart is Mars
A red orb in my chest
The ancients called, "god of war,"
For red and bright and passionate it was.
Dry it is now and dusty
With only some occasional magnetism
Not enough for an atmosphere
To enchant joy and heat.
It becomes a brittle rock each night.
Some claim to see evidence of departed life
Or hold out hope for a few mites
That friction might lightning strike into something alive.
"Look," they say at this surface scar or
That sunken crater that threw chunks of red matter into a vacuumed void
Surely it is alien, proved.
What strange life was held in its clutches.
They like to take pictures, write fiction
Speak of daydreamed visits
And proclamate promised futures,
But it is only the rovers who are loyal
They who come and stay.