179

As we drag our feet towards the center of

the universe, a scroll unfolds in space,
and its bright ink pulled by a gentle dove
speaks to the happy soul with goals in place:
"I hang on the edge of the galactic
language and pull the strings from ten percent
of the mind, against the fake mathematic
precepts of meanings and time dependent:
I hover around celestial vessels
the by-product of which is fruitful thought
and gainful gleams bridged on gleaming trestles
that lead to true light beyond shadow doubt:
Which is not to say that blurriness snipes,
only that awareness ensures all types."
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