At such heights
you could be headlong beyond
any gauge of pain. The pressure up, the oxygen off
your heart starts mumbling molten gold. Your view
now dark but star-shot when the chamber’s frame
gives way to memories of rising prayer and nothing
like this simulated climb they’ve made you take
as you hallucinate those blackened scraps you saw
from dying fires now moths that dust your form as if
for proof to those who watch perplexed and coldly
note your peaceful gaze, that close as they might fly
to you they’ve barely changed the air.
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