Warfare of the Brain

Ev’ry privateer needs shut-eyes

to let their consciousness float

across the Prussian, past-wise,

idly taking note—

of mossless stones in a static roll:

morose echoes of a school of souls.

Mantled sailing to a marooned world

while lulling to ambient susurration.

Gravitating past terrenes, murmured:

“The wonted zone of sequestration.”

So when I land on 13-43-40,

fanal clicking right above me—

How far-off am I from those flat fishies

to hum the mono-tune of Whalien 52!

They all wander the tideless seas

while I don’t mind the solitude.

It takes a new standpoint to accept

that our Solar System is inept—

For what can they do but moan and groan without purpose

into the void since only stillness ever stirs the surface?