Mark Peterson

A Dream Too Far Distant






Night revolves in stillness,
reaching for the dawn.
Orion, Taurus and the Dogs,
yield to Deneb and the Swan.

And there in deep south rising,
a blood-tinged, pulsing heart,
Antares, stinger and the claws:
celestial works of art.
But now comes an intruder
amid Scorpius' vivid stars,
for Antares is but mere rival
to the dazzling orb of Mars.
In dreams I've often wandered
and traversed empty space—
through darkest matter I have roamed,
yet yearned for just one place.
Its icy poles I've glimpsed from earth—
winds and saffron dust—
iron from exploded suns
gathered there as rust.
I'm sure I'd miss the color green—
long for skies of blue.
But brand new memories I'd espouse
forgetting hues I knew.
Alas, I'm tethered to the earth—
can't travel into space.
So in twenty, maybe thirty years,
won't you please go in my place?

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