We practice it in our sleep,
That final flight into the ether-
The one from which we will never come back.

We're riding high, on the cresting wave of moonlight
Sceaming past fires of flaming suns
Far into the cauldron of multicolored night.

The slip-knot of time slows down
Long enough to drag our cocooned soul
Into the nearest sphincter of a wormhole.

Who could have guessed
That darkness would be the bone-marrow
Of so many subtle and exotic hues.

Racing through veils of blown out stars,
We pierce the raving annihilation of space
Weaving to and fro, through the comet trails.

Our voices still many light years behind us,
Stretching out, in the neural photonics of joy-
Only echoes returning, by morning.