jump to navigation

Nine point eight metres per second per second 1 April 2014

Posted by Dr Moose in Life, Poetry.
Tags:
trackback

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.

Advertisements

Comments»

No comments yet — be the first.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: