rising rising in the air
above a world hes left behind
he stares out the window
and sees merely clouds
interspersed with the waves
five miles below
for a few fickle moments
the insipid hum
of the jets siren song
teases/tempts/traps
his fragile spirit
yet he cannot decide
if his ultimate ride
leads him forward or back
puts him on the right track
if it renders him stable
or wholly unable
to face life alone
with a heart full of stone
hes a wizened wayfarer
a will-o-the-wisp
an ancient memory
a human being
a few hours pass and
the jet glides down harshly to the
specked surface of a black tarmac
but the journey is over
for him and he breathes
a sigh of relief
its been an endless
hour/minute/second/lifetime
and hes tired
all the world is aloof
hes almost home now but
he stops short
and wonders where exactly that is
but there is a voice in his conscience
guiding him softly
so he closes his eyes
and forgets everything
before this moment
and smiles because hes home
11.07
I wrote this six years after "desire to travel."
s.d.
