The drive is endless, perilous,
and being recorded for posterity,
because one planet
is no longer enough.

H.P. Lovecraft is at the wheel,
and we're looking at one thing
and not your mother.

That was a Freudian slip,
but not really surprising
since he's also along for the ride.

And when we get there
we'll scavenge for sovereignty
in the orange filter of hope.

Then a flag will mark
our demesne,
a spot defining both
pride & terror,
as it delivers a dose of ambition,
yet, reeks of future tyranny.

Pray our luck runs out along the way
or we run out of gas
or steam
or headway...

Then again, maybe we should
hope for the breast.
I mean best !
Freud's at it again.