One rocket scientist
said to another:
- Please, my brother,
can I bother?
It seems I need
a kick, some speed
I beg you nice,
would you accelerate
this slow and gentle
state of mine.
Just help me fly,
so fast and high,
It'll pop my eyes
right out' their sockets!
No juice will do,
no yeast will brew
just the right stew.

- I see, you
strive to reach
the sky, all right
but haven't found
the proper rockets?

- Yeah, the ones
I've flown,
I did not own,
the ones I need
I can't afford.

- Ah, but the bolt
you need
to take it higher
you can't acquire
by means of anything
I have in stash.
Not cash, not hash,
not anything you pull
from pockets.

- Don't mock me!
However, I did
try to knock me
down, in order
to leave ground.
As I now reconsider,
it seems unsound.

- Just like I thought!
The fuel you found
just tied you harder
to the ground.
Here's my recommendation:
a medicine so strong,
it can't be sold
or bought, in any state
or nation.

- It must be new?

- Yes, but still
extremely old.
Besides, it must
be ground by you,
in order to function,
you must be bold;
take it at a crossroad
of fate, a junction
reached by few,
in fact, my friend
just by you.

- A strange decoction
I must say, how would I
even know the label?

- You can't,
that's my advice,
since words and signs
all change with time.
Even contents do defy
representation
once in a while.
It seems, I've found,
that all things stable
stem from fable,
and little lies
- preferably white -
can help you build
the wings that fly.
To break the binds,
that is, to find
intoxication
of the right kind
you must apply
the medication
that I call
Imagination.