Ætherlogue IV

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Deep in interstellar hyperspace, where we venture oh so bold,

we fly at speeds faster than light to cross lightyears bleak and cold.


Warping spacetime, the drive pods shimmer in shades of Cherenkov blue,

driving our ship toward an alien sun on a course straight and true.


In that dark interstellar space we see stars like grains of sand,

mere specks of glowing dust on the Milky Way’s luminous band.


Frail and vulnerable creatures wrapped in bubbles of air and light,

we venture into the darkling Void, strangers in æternal night.


And in endless cosmic Silence we feel a deep forlorn,

the sense of something we should have gained but lost when we were born.


Across the cold, dark vacuum, lightyears wide we’ve ranged,

listening for ætherial whispers of that from which we’re estranged.


An inexpressible yearning, much more felt than heard,

a quiet voice speaks to us, though it utters not a word.


Silently the ghosts of words haunt us in the night,

then, like dreams from which we wake, evaporate in morning’s light.


Seeking still we know not what, the galaxy we roam,

restless in our yearning until Death comes to take us home.


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