She has
Always been empty
Of aught but herself
She built her own airships and
Sailed westerlies most calm
The interchange of futures
Distant marks upon her charts
And periapts of the exiled
Things she eagerly lost
That said
Inconturnable
Her tailwinds cannot keep
For a beetle in a prism told
There is nothing to be
Without being
And so the drifting vision
Composed of stories
Near to flesh
The rudder of imagination that
Has been mainstay and reflex
She will drift to earth
And leave it
Where memory grows
Dearer than truth
Believing grass will cover sails
And new flowers bloom
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