poems on planes/i am no poet/part 1

TRONDHEIM - AMSTERDAM

The beast
breathing in the air
that is so willingly given to it by the sky,
and spitting it out again.

It is used to feeding so gluttonously it forgets its precious cargo.
Grunting, sighing
it does not change its habits.

Yet the undeniable tension is lost somewhere
inside its hollow shell,
every inch pulsating in a complex rhythm only the winds decide.

Lost in a place between time and space
the beast moves through continuums that makes one doubt on the reality of it.
On whether it is standing still,
if it is moving at all.
And before the mind is left to wander
it reminds you of a powerless desperation hidden in its size,
there's no place to hide
when push comes to shove.

But all of it is obsolete
in light of the one true thing it has in common with the people in its seats:
the destination.

Fed with plastic food with plastic names by plastic people,
the carry-on, cargo luggage is seduced to staying
people reduced to numbers dangling in the sky.
It is here the irony comes creeping in -
the realization of the inevitable truth:

no one else decided.

You are the keymaster, the pupeteer
the director
producer and star of your bitter attempt to prove to yourself that
YOU ARE NOT AFRAID.
and once again.
you failed.

Now all you can think about is how happy you felt a few minutes before stepping onto this
SUICIDE MISSION OF STEEL

and now you are stuck.
Trying to handle the mind games that the mind plays
when one thought is on repeat:
"I have to get through this"
and mute whispers of
"I swear I'll be a better person".

The desperation that human beings feel sometimes
is laughable and scary,
it makes you weary to say it but it's true.
Meanwhile you are sealing your eyelids tight,
you try to get some rest,
you try to block the light.

It doesn't change a thing.

The deep sleep you seek will not be visiting today,
even if you glued your eyelids shut it wouldn't.

This situation you are in, it is here to stay,
your hung-over neighbour leaning on your shoulder,
producing odours resembling dead horse's meat that's been hung to dry for three days
will not go away.

Sip your tea.
Eat your cookie.

Blue, yellow, red light to your left.
Sunrise.
To your right: pitch black.
Night.

Piercing through thick layers of smoked water
as you are once again facing the paradox of a tin can floating on air.

Not bad.
Not bad at all.

© msar