My hands are stiff,
and my drink is weak.
I’ve hoped for an existence,
Colored brilliantly,
A house on Mars.
Only glass above,
and red dust below,
Where I waste away,
Watching sailors in space,
Set sail and off they race,
Still, my drink is weak.
No neighbors,
A small fern to my right,
Which I call Britannia,
Ahead of me a bent oak,
I call it Byzantina,
To me left is a group of flowers,
I call the Colonies,
And I grow tired of them all,
Which is why I love Mars,
Here I relax,
And find myself.
What I found,
I found hope in fear,
And fear in death,
But excitement in life,
Where do I go from here?
When I know me but,
the saliors are missing,
Flying no more to the sky,
Locked by ignorance,
Held by hands,
Of men and women,
Who’s own fear,
Is greater than mine,
So, they draw a line,
Between dangerous and fine,
And we are the line.
I wish,
I could live on Mars.

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