Towards The Penal Colony

Legs of light, long and sinuous stretched into the unknown dark,
like Moira’s legs, so supple they were almost boneless.
He forced himself not to think of her. She belonged to the past,
in his turbulent ocean of storms -
Oceanus Procellarum.

Now, present and future are the blank page.
New thoughts burgeon. Thought is allowed.
At last. Freed from the Mind Mentors
He floats on a sea of tranquility.
He rolls its Latin around his brain -
soon it may emerge from his mouth -
Mare Tranquillitatis.