The children weaving future’s contraband
Will toe-reform the sand to castles grand
And cross the waving line to sleights of mind.

They’ll meld to a shuffling of mind and feet.
Their feet drugged in rows in nightshade’s keep
And cross the breaded line with death entwined.

They’ll bear the kings of men past shouldered heights,
As monarchs in flight, o’er all time and space
To conquer all life in cocooned embrace.

The men are left behind enslaved to land.
The foot-dreams of men cast down by chance hand
With star lusted cries to vacated skies.