Wednesday, June 20, 2007

It takes Eleven Hours

The sky turns blue,

In heed,


The sun burns red,

Like rubies on a diadem,

The migratory aves,

Take refuge far down.

It is too hot to travel.

Yet I fly, In this bird of a plane,

The likes of a glider,

Small and midget-like,

Bigger still to the cirrus,

That flutter from end to end,

Like thistledown in the sky.

Only this far illusional,

For they appear and evanesce,

Like they were none.

To wither they flee, I hardly know.

For all I know,

I leave behind a home,

And people,

In search of Being, one may say,

Truth, may the other.

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