We who go south
In the asylums of the mind,
Slipping through the dunes
Into the byways of the whale road
Glean what pleasure we may
Drawing our small maps.
Scribing small secrets overheard
From the faceted fractal colloquially
We eavesdrop from
The sleep talking head voices
Of our silently roaring, rattling universe.
Constantly waking into nested moments
What else can we do but wonder,
Or rail, laugh, or cry, luxuriate or suffer?
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