For TheDeadGuy. For raincomplex. For Bitriot. For cabin fever. For Arthyr.
When this cosmic messFinally comes to mean nothingTo the old tribesOf pearly metal sailboatsWho have drawn the mapsOf a burning bowlfullOf boring stars in anotherSedimentary frontier of fatesAnd hiding places,
Except that there is no groundUnder which to burrow, our only concernIs the direction of upWhere is it and what andHow does it help becauseWhen we conquer upEverything else will fall into placeMattering less than the thumbTucked into the fist to keep from freezingAs the rest of the arm erectsThe hitchhiker hail
When we open the new final book and wonderAt how easily the answers comeAnd how so many of life's truths are merelyThe intersections of nature, that'll be the dayWhen I get my free ride through space
date unknownprobably early 2014
Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.
Need help? firstname.lastname@example.org