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Nine point eight metres per second per second 1 April 2014

Posted by Dr Moose in Life, Poetry.

The rocket,
shooting skyward,
spitting sparks,
has no other purpose:
Destined for glorious demise
flying heedlessly up,
beyond recall.

Likewise the soaring satellite-thrower
leaves the earth,
payload orbit-bound.

Times come when I
would my dragging satellites disown,
yet your love,
your gravity,
restrains worst excesses of my mental flight.

I fail to reach escape velocity.



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