By Michael Smith
Dedicated to Final Fantasy 7 (PlayStation, 1966)
The polygons align and reveal to me a mirror.
A man like me, with pixel-perfect skin of fertile soil,
Hi-top fade like obsidian,
And dark brown eyes of kindness
Hiding behind a semipermanent frown.
A man like me, with a chip on his shoulder
Who believes there is more to life
Than the smog-choked skies of a dyin’ planet.
Controller in hand, a copper umbilical wire
Connecting my world to his, I lead the way.
An adventure spanning across cerulean oceans and ruby deserts,
Over tranquil snowy mountains and poisonous, life-draining swamps,
Ending at the heart of corruption in the Earth’s core.
Scorpion tanks, living cacti, and the all-consuming energy corporation
Are flattened in the wake of my avalanche of a partner as we search for a solution
To the smog-choked skies of a dyin’ planet.
He gives me his dialogue projected on the screen,
His gonna’s his nothin’ his y’all’s.
In return, I give him my voice and my amateur acting.
I cry his tears and shout his grievances.
Together we share our weighty regrets,
Our greatest triumphs, and tell a tale
Of how two men with skin of soil
Cleared the smog-choked skies of a dyin’ planet.
