Buried by the Atmosphere
In a Universe of Seven Heavens
Grace is in the Eighth
High when we’re within it
Or fall from it
To a ruminated fate
But I won’t stare at the ceiling
Nor affix myself to the floor
But rather look — for a window
Or to behold — an open door
I think these might be everywhere
Although nowhere in sight
So I unearth myself from the atmosphere
And begin to take my flight