Landing in Incheon

The white, silent moon has grown bleak,
Half of a focal stone in the burning red crown
Of the horizon's slow transformation,

We descend into the cloud bank, foreboding,
Windows suddenly dripping with condensation
For an instant, I mistake the wing beacons for lightning

I feel my pulse quickening in fear and elation
Do not others feel trapped in this halfway emotion?
Shaken, this new world takes hold of me again

The warm, thick fog deceptively swirls about us
When I leave this casement, what should I do?
Instantly at peace, yet still at war with myself 

The landing, how I embrace it, over and over
Deep inside my being, recalled more clearly than first love,
Some form of reawakening, some rebirth, must surely exist there.

-Argentia Krystofel