you shouldn't write poetry when you're driving unless your pen is reliable (black ink is best)

silky cotton clouds chase
after the elusive pink orange blush
of the set sun
as it slips down across the country
this magnetic vortex
unmarred except for a dust speck
I mean passenger plan crowded with people
merrily putting, cutting it's inharmonious way
across this mystery
I wonder, if I were the pilot
would I be able to resist that mystical pull?
Maybe I would fly along clueless
too preoccupied with instruments and timetables
to look up and see
How is it anyway, we humans so often go
putt-putting on our way
ignoring the fingers of creation, all pointing upward
ears too full of cacophony to hear
the song of salvation
too busy to stop and ask
what really is all this longing for?
What should I be chasing after?

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