I like space.
Because there is nobody in it,
including me.
The chatter of crusty old selves
that I call myself
has cleared out without
lifting a finger.
Vanquished by some magical sneeze
from a trickster spritzer
that wipes clean the windscreen of my mind.
I get out of my own way …
My brain hops out for a romp in the field of dreams,
safe to rattle and shake with faeries and mischief-maker mystics.
We wreak havoc in the attic
on those snarky little must-dos
that have tongue-tied me up
for too long in the basement
of my imagination.
They scurry away, tails between legs,
jump back onto a neat little list
pinned to my fridge, far away
from the fantastamagical land
that strikes up the band
whenever my space invaders
have quit their invasion.
Space …
not just a cadet,
but a five-star general in
the army of holy ragamuffins.
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