Wednesday, February 29, 2012

The Hour of Fire



A half full plane idled on the runway.
20 minutes.
No clouds, no rain.
Sitting on the runway seems
to be a re-occuring personal theme.
A message?


Whispered mantras, purification,
further in I went.
Suddenly the turbines spun
and the engine belched flames.


We flew up into the hour of fire.
Out of the right window: the red sun,
burning into the ruby sky.
Out of my left window was the blue moon
A winter sapphire glistening.

I created myself into light,
sending it cross the sky. 
To my right was fire, 
to my left was ice;

I stood in the middle.

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