The Aviator (An improvised ekphrastic poem from LukeC's illustration)

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He never asked why.
He only glared when people asked him.
He never saw the sky as a swath, as most do.
For him, every cubic meter of space was unique and ever-changing.
He wouldn't think to talk about engines, instrument readings, specs.
It was only the air that spoke to him, became him.
He never moved machinery.
It worked him through himself.

Created: Dec 30, 2011

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