The Plane by Morgan Bazilian

It is
Meant
To look like
A modest
Plane. But
One whose wings
Are not entirely real, but
Are made from smoke and magic and stardust and sunblasts.
A plane so fast that it blurs physics, imagination, sight, love, and form.
In its cargo
Is everything
Hope
Hate
Presence
Futility
Dharma
Skin
Bones
Colour
And
A
Small
Insistence
Of
Reality