On the plane to Budapest



The clouds slide past 

and rising, rustle against the

blank sky. Their grandeur

throws me off balance. 

I wish I could throw off my clothes

and sprint unarmed into a forest, shrink slowly into my seat, 

grab my mother's hand and ask her to check the closet, 

escape from the light and 

revel in the silence of my visceral noises,

breathe uneasily in the presence of such totally 

inhuman things.



What is tomorrow? The sky, unmoving, rests.

I probe the softness strapped by my seatbelt. The cold

beckons me to the measureless vacuum of the land.



If this is heaven, do I deserve to stay here?

My name is a great divide, a duality coalescing into one on the horizon.

On the tender membrane rests the memories 

Of large and distant things. Let their feet trundle

past like trains of thought. Let them breathe apart

the clouds, drawn in half by a grey carpeted aisle,

a meal cart above the cusp of the sky.

I wish I could comprehend such beauty.



It is said that Sisyphus, content in his toil,

forgot the purpose, the duration, the audience of his suffering. 

As bore on in the desert even the Gods themselves forgot, distracted by other wars.

The only witness to his time was the desert.

The only witness to his labor was his blood.

The rain never fell on those plains.



In a matter of years I will give birth.

Winter is coming soon. I will die and become water held in the atmosphere. Perhaps

there truly is no end.


This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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