Poetry

Top of creation

Above the clouds you go, go, go
Chasing the wind, climbing through the snow
Reaching the summit, surveying your station
Could you be on top of creation?

And then the fog lifts, and you see, feel, know
Above the clouds you’re the same as below
Cruising along, you stir in your seat —
There’s no ground below your feet

If the air would part and you’d fall, fall, fall
Who’d be the one to answer your call?
The plane glides down, seconds later it lands
But the question still stands

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