Poetry

On a Plane, Eastward Bound

Here and there, miles above this world's stage,
We dream the curved, thin line of horizon,
Marked by the ember glow of Sunset's pyre,
Burned low at the end of Day's last hour.

We awake with the rising of the night
The Rosencratz and Guildenstern of sky
No longer content to lie behind the Glare
Of what is to be or not to be

Now becomes our time. Like gleams of gilter
We filter through the nighttime's silken shroud
To dance around 'til morning heralds the
Danish Prince, back from Ophelia's embrace.