Sailing through interstellar spaces,
putting cosmic surf horses through their paces;
clouds of astral dust following non-existent faces,
looking for a rendez-vous in imaginary places.

Why does the mental traveller carry so much precious treasure?
Hoard it, hide it, fight for it
(and repent it at his leisure).
Bury it and lose the map
(and wonder where he hid it).

A voice
in the cosmic wilderness,
crying out, “I did it!”


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