There's no mind to it, the engine's roar.
Fire 'em up is the cry over the headset. Into the 101st mile, the cylinders break off.
The plane howls through the night, its tailless form like a shroud in the sky.
The morning brings contrails and rainbow clouds.
It's spinning, and he can feel it. He can't leave it.
Passed out, controls freeze before the plane hits the continuum.
The beast's riding to the end of its very own zenith, the gigantic mirage of its design's destiny.
It takes on a transparence, flitting on its path, a pink ghost.