Ministry

Thirty thousand feet above the ground.
Closer to the stars.
Multidimensional galaxies, and string theories have been expanded on your tainted palms, and your
Muted guitar.
Gathering signage, illuminating image in rage.
Sending smoke signal every mili-second to your Scottish tongue, and renaissance eyes.
Receivers are still demanding failures, and trophies.
Warm light, cold night.
Zero degrees outside, and we're still gazing at our evening star