When the new year comes the ground will be the ground 

and the skies will be the skies and the planes flying higher 

than a prayer can reach will drop death from their bellies.

Death for thee, not for me



Son of a son of a miner, the laddered strands of dna once

deep in the earth now high in the air, the thread that connects

can no longer tether, and again the falcon cannot hear 

the falconer.



The physics of flight and castles of sand, co-mingled

in this roughest of beasts, subsonic at fifty thousand feet,

the dust clouds will rise and the souls of the dead 

fill the skies.



Ashes in the mouths of all their gods.