Evening Plane Flight
On the ground light dims.
A blanket of fog holds darkness in,
but rising in flight
we reach a second day
where the sun
has not yet set.
The clouds
are stepping stones.
I could walk to the sun
on a marbled road,
heaven some say
beyond an orb of gold.
Others tell
it could be hell out there,
beneath a nuclear eye,
the revelation of fire
with nowhere to hide.
Should I seek or flee?
Another cries:
"All is illusion
on land that seems.
Birds alone pass here,
not human kind,
unless we dream."
Above, the cold world
of new stars
and the emptiness of a second night.
Is it too only a dream,
a film of dust or vapour
I could uncover
to another night
and other stars?
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