The cyclist on his bike, fueled by sweat of curiosity, Wondered Wondered why it was that he could not fly He thought therefore he became and on that bike of gold He soared, the heavens a freeway for the blind Finally seeing : Earth is merely an elephant graveyard for the angels The knowledge was a toxic pinball, corroding his insides as dust He felt despair creeping like smog (knowledge spoils) Without thought or command his flesh imploded Snapping like a boomerang at the end, the beginning Of the universe. And then he was a fiery star, His bike of human mold cast down (and sweetens) Without restrictive ears he could comprehend The slow mellotones of his fellow Fliers, Travellers, Stars They hummed a warning to the man who was not Of the hazards of thought And the universe was silent again.