Five hours in flight with nothing to unglue.
Five hours suspended in cloud chewed through
by a sky of insight
that would imbue with light
the teary beads of precipitation
hanging in the windows of anticipation.
The illuminated trails yet to arrive,
strapped in and forced to set distractions aside,
cultivating nothing of importance,
but this will go up anyway
and that is the irony.
As we rise in elevation,
resigned to rapid penetration,
a ragged correspondence
will compensate for being connected to nothing.
Red eyed relationships of leaving
losing nothing if not the illusion of balance,
the luster of newness,
the lust for her turbulence,
memories tripped up on the fading trust
spurring a glance that asks
“Where have you been?”
Exiled on an island,
writing to the infinite and the sensual
within the harsh borders of coral.
The weight of an ocean will hold up this craft
but lend nothing towards its escape.
Below us an endless graph of salt
clay stillness with the occasional squall
breaking the monotony,
a storm surge over the real possibility
of being caught in its momentum.
Rips of wind tilt the within,
pulling at these compartments of recollection,
an internal state like a projection on the horizon,
a spotlight glow
beyond the seascape of shadow
and definition, a prison we’d never find ourselves in.
Excitement and apprehension
towards an infinite well the dark was sucked into.
The ocean veiled in textured clouds
that were like razor reeds
to sharpen the sleep of the waiting deep.
The melancholy of what you leave
meets relief at being in motion again.
Reluctant acceptance courts disarray and distance,
rekindling old strands,
those gypsy strands
that caravan the sinking sands
of just reward
punctuated by renewal’s lonely chords
sliding into the nothing you were descending towards.