Earth is in orbit.

I can see it in the window.

From the window of this
Conflict-free
Facility.

A crew of
Four souls

In gravitational symphony.

A crew of
Four colors

Ad rem and
Unsegregated.

The vastness of space
Brought us together.

What's the transmission?

"Why can't the world below
Live like this?"

Coming out
Into the world,
After a sure start
With nowhere to go now
Almost choking
At being an adult
Living life,
As it was laid out
By nature and nurture
Unfazed by my own religion
Or the world outside,
Never talked
To the guy upstairs
But living used to be sacred,
Is now all but sacrilege
If it were always
My plan versus his
I never stood a chance
But there's a sense
Of burdened freedom
Along with a sense
Of joyful realism
To be happy
any chance you get,
A fine ventriloquist
He's got his ways
Makes you admire
The work he does,
While pondering
The meaning of life,
The fine line
Between right and wrong,
Trying to get some
sense of control
Thinking of pulling
One up on my destiny
Of saving my soul
Not selling out
To this facade
Of what we call progress
But maybe I should
Just stay a while
And enjoy this blissful anaesthesia,
Monitored by the man himself.

If readers were made rulers
Their knights would wield pens
Their wars fought on paper
And their subjects imaginary

a desert's sapped gold, desolately

faced--struck by serpents whose

venom is a rising chorus.

vanity mirror of a sun that cannot

be imbued by secondariness.

spittle oasis' of a wanderer sinking

journey-less steps into the wending

tracks of serpents.

strung and unstrung along by dead-silent

arrays, multitudinal whispers of demons.

the slow decomposition of worship,

a promise to a promise, to a promise--

visibly lost.