in some country's airspace
far above it all, the 777 glides
over cotton-wool hills, sandy steppes,
an occasional city's glow as
navigational lights blink
on and off, on and off, flashes of
red and white alternating
in the hollow night sky,
searching for
home
is no longer
a concrete place, the definition
drifts, from country to
country, as the world shifts
the atlantic waves rise and fall
takeoff, landing, each airport
blending into the same,
each morning a new
beginning, each night
a real end.
YOU ARE READING
Fleeting Scenes, Fleeing Thoughts
PoetryA collection of patchwork scraps. Poetry, vignettes, character studies and experiments. More of a way for me to collate my writing than anything else.
