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Twelve billion eyes blinking between my thoughts.
No stars in skies or cosmonauts.
They are alone, denying their reality,
Attached to infinite hopes of some banality.
They march along an eternal trail,
Quickly diverted from the wind-blown sail,
That would carry their burden above the maze,
Escaping from the frightened haze.
They are colorless ants caught up in a runnel,
Spiraling trance spinning down a funnel,
No longer 9-2-5, but rather 8-2-8,
Searching for green paper to compensate,
For the answers to questions long lost:
“Are we drones? Are we alone?”
But for the rest of us, we’re knowing,
Looking for green lights and flowing,
Across the river of dreams,
And now it just seems,
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