Sunday, May 27, 2012


At this height,
Where I have no words to describe

The world that passes beneath, strew; Lie,
'Scrapers, homes, courts and roads intertwined.

From seat 49A, on a Boeing 787, though a small hole,
I peek, past the clouds into lands, exotic and unknown.

On a being with five hundred other souls,
All with an unsaid thought- terrorized throes

Of that headline in a newspaper,
Without tales of a brave pilot, without a single suvivour.

Safety instructions which no one cares about,
But what if we were to crash land, a creeping doubt.

Impatient for the flight to land-
Some want to go home, others panic at gone awry plans.

Watches hastily adjusted, Once you chased a sunrise,
Now you want to be in your bed, tucked tight.

We race past clouds of a relentless season,
Even as you curse the airline company with belligerence.

Impatient, you strap the belt and prepare to touch ground,
Your trepidation of a skid- even as you squirm in your seat, bound.

As we wait for the baggage to arrive,
At home, your anger and mood begin to swell and rise.

You implore the nation and its state with your freedom,
Compare it with fantastic places with strict moratorium.

And as you curse the taxi drivers for charging the sky,
Somewhere, you are just glad to arrive.

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