There is no collective imagination:
that is death.
Scale it monochrome,
I will find cosmos
in the twilight,
rhythm in a voiceless page.
And when color retreats
again to stonewalls,
I will bathe in transmissions
of those stellar stations,
gold-plated on the Horizon
like Apollo’s solar wings.

Already the mythic
ecstasy of that capital
aurora claims what it
deems selective in the absence
of the uniform,
yet we are all still
children of the stars:
free in our pursuit
to their expression,
both holding and bending,
together alone.

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