Airplanes like comets
drawing cloud-lines in the sky,
rips in reality beyond which other worlds lie.
Worlds bathed in fire, because orange shines through.
If reality really ripped, what would we do?
My mind begins to spiral, up but so low
till all that's left is the nothingness I know,
and suddenly you stand at the edge of the end,
a universe of silence  in which we pretend
to have a purpose, that there is truth, that we are real.
But when you perceive there's nothing, there's nothing to feel.
An accidental planet trying to fill the space
but in this universe of silence, we simply have no place
when I release my fantasies, I lose it all
the ground falls away, and equally I fall.
So I grasp at small things...
like man-made comets with metal wings
ripping reality, passing by
painting purpose on an empty sky.