Breakage
Clank
Of the lever.
Clatter
Of quick sever
Through the transmission
Of the mission.
An inhalation of breath,
Strapping missiles
In flight, seeking heat
And speeding towards
A guided destination.
Braced in the atmosphere,
Fuselage is gilded clear
To pump gasoline
Through a turbine
In fourth gear.
Metallic smoke curls
Behind a chemtrail of a contrail
In wake of a dynamo
Of stability fins unfurled.
But away from that
There is a skylens.
Peering up from the sidewalk
In a city of skyscrapers.
A convex camera,
A beating heart
Of infrastructure
Quietly listening away
To the silent flight
Of a missile,
To shock the heart
Of a city.
And even further
With the jolt,
Like being strapped to
A car battery,
A tiny little sun rises.
Its pale pink light
Graces in streaks a
Navy blue sky.
Hearts beat in sync.
A tiny sun arcs slowly
Across the skylens’s
Sight. A missile is seen
As a streak of pink.
Scent of contrail smoke:
A burning, rusted metal
Twirling high in the atmosphere.
Consume Reality! 