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;
to my left was ice;
I stood in the middle.
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