The world is a turquoise globe.
Fact not myth or delusion.
How do iconoclasts spend their day ?,
I suppose, in solitude or loneliness.
Copernicus, showed us that the world
Was not flat, and still there are abundant
Flat earthers selling their story,
With no trouble on the inside. And flat earth,
Will always be that place of abundant dreams,
How this Goldilocks planet became a Manila folder,
And that dream takes no account of the prevailing truth,
That we are just a little blue dot in a universe,
A marble inside a space of a million galaxies,
Filled with all sorts of marbles,
Planets with peculiar rings and strange trajectories.
Thinking about this sort of thing,
Those far-away places, is enough for us,
To lose our marbles. It is that food
For thought, that makes us knotted inside,
Unable to make things stand on their own,
Those gags that in time, become amyloid plaques,
As we slip along the Alzheimer’s slope,
Wondering, how little we know.
We are all grains of sand on a beach,
Waiting for the tide of time,
To dislodge us.