Monday, February 1, 2016

these are the roads to heaven

atop the lofty
gold beringed clouds
of montana flat lands
sits a lonesome figure.

she looks out, ahead,
ascetically, almost bored,
at the spinning wheel of the
blue sky looking back.

that which is time is not.
that which becomes space is not.

"from here," she says,
"I can see the diamond star,
the swirling wisps of unborn galaxies,
the deathlike blackness of space."

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