Roger, I see you sweating at that desk ;
Work not so hard, there is no need for it.
When you let go the tension in your coiled up Mind
The answer you seek will float to the surface
In words rolled inside the thoughts that that will unfold.
If you look around this room, Miranda
Seated in the opposite corner, says she  is ready to give
Much to you. But she has some doubts
And your disinterest compounds them ;
The thought : “ I dare not offer you
What I yearn to give you “, persists within her.
Is this all a dream in some disjoint
Reality to ours, that I cannot really tell.
I fear that these pleasurable revels of ours
Amongst all free floating Spirits and others grounded, they are dream stuff
Not made of the real solid matter composing the Earth
And so might melt into thin air
As Time ticks by.
Do you smell Music as my nose does.
Will we lose this magical moment where Ourselves
Are immersed in immeasurably delightful a Time, perhaps
It is all just a Bubble enclosed in a thin membrane
Brought into Being by Prospera’s magic spell
Over which neither Us nor Prospera
Has any control. This creation of hers
That surrounds and presses in upon Us
May have its own ends which
It shall work upon our senses.
Like Numbers, there and there not, invisible
Yet they keep weaving their threads in our thinking Minds.
Let there be hope that this Bubble
With a Mind of its own, will keep
Itself together for a long, long time, allowing
This great Play of Ours, taking place
Amongst this flesh and blood, continue for a long duration of Time