Admiral Byrd tried to warn us about Antarctic Nazis and ice-bound flying discs and so our expedition was a success despite the challenges and the risks: when the saucers came, we were ready and when calm was all that could save us, our hands were steady.

We lost three ships and a hundred men, our ammunition was running out and our nerves were wearing thin. Yet, all along our resolve was strong, knowing we were right but even more, knowing they were wrong.

The Swastika prepared us for the worst and haunted our dreams, though signs and symbols are only ideas and seldom what they seem: balance and light and all things good a thousand years ago, now evil and discord are what it symbolizes and Hell is closer than you know, closer than we realize.

The flat earth is a riddle of ancient pedigree, an idea shorn of rational thought, doctorates or degrees. Though scientists ignore it and astronauts clearly see it's flaws, pseudo-science embraces it and follows all it's laws.

I wonder if the world is flat, can we ever get back home, time is roughly cyclical no matter where we roam and planets act enigmatically, they spin and they careen and If I believe you love me I'll believe anything.

The flat earth society has me in it's grip since I'm a fool for foolishness and all that kind of shit but true or false, science or myth this world of ours is a goddam gift and the promise of love is a dream adrift on an angry sea of tears.


© W.G. Myers