Airplanes

I was once an author of the air, A plucky, flighty, beast.  The words sifted from the clouds and found their home in my eyes, in my hands,  To your hands, to your eyes.

Stories from the ether.  Beautiful conflagrations stolen from their flights of fancy And painted with words onto canvas. Images grasped from thin air beyond the wing.  Described with vivid color, Tinged with vibrant imagination. They took on new form and shape. And like shapeshifters, though their outward form changed,  Their soul remained the same. A smattering of hope,  A shout of dissent,  A piece of possibility,  An irresistible mix.  And O what tales they were

Tales of storms and their birth. Tales of mountains and their death. Tales of wonder and woe. Tales of burning engines and cloistered seats, Tales of tiny windows and the magnificent views beyond. Tales of heros and their journeys. Tales of the world.  Tales of me and you.

But now the clouds don’t shine as they once did. The storms darken distant skies And the heroes turn tyrant. Wonder is bent broken by cold logic.  And the lofty wings of imagination are shattered by the winds of reality. The burning engines fizzle and the ground rises.  The words fumble their way around in the darkness,  Seeking meaning in a desperate attempt to make sense.  And like the clouds from which they were born,  They dissipate into the ether.

They are not gone, No.  The words still flit around,  Banging on the window,  Leaning on the canvas. Asking to be written,  Waiting to be impressed upon the page.  Small mementos to hope,  Flickers of sunshine through the rain.

I am still an author of the air,  But now I sleep all the way.

#Airplanes #Poetry #Writing