I do my best to shoot for the moon,
But what do I do if I actually get there?
If I survived the trip,
And headed back the way I came,
I would probably burn up on reentry,
Nothing left to hit the ground.
Particles of skin, bone and muscle,
Shredded and shot through the atmosphere.
I would travel forever,
Still waiting for splashdown.
An eternity of gritted teeth,
Knotted muscle,
And gee forces,
Ripping me apart.