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How far will a human go for comfort?

By Brian Robertson


A speck of dust free in the wind.

In a cold desert under a dimly lit sun

it spined, free from disturbance from anyone

Then came one, a shooting star.

Descendants of man, travelers from afar.

Touched down on the surface, in a cheaply made boxcar

They moved some land, and then some more

and up came the desert, through trenches they tore.

On this new world, they had yet to explore

Great domes popped up, not one and not two

with thousands insert, what would they do

they withdrew to couch, left the world to ignore


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