My latest original five-line poem. Stumbled across an apropos song to listen to while crafting this one:
His Fading Contrails
sometimes when i see the fog hovering over morning grass like a spaceship,
i want it to take me up to the pink clouds, leave everything else behind,
but i know my contrails will follow me like exhaust of a different kind,
and the world below will dawn tin foil hats to explain not my absence,
but in fervent devotion to the god of ascendancy, praying to take them, too.