the young woman in front of me sings a muffled tune about long and lonely roads, and i wonder if she's considered that every last road is a figure of speech to some one just under the stratosphere.
the plane's banking now, and i'm drifting. the wind and air lift the aluminum wing, caress the fuselage with a serpent of white vapor.
a slow turn, and i'm dreaming.
i'm home and i'm young but i'm afraid, the grass between my toes is dewey, autumn and it's cold
and i'm alone in the morning mist and the sky is painted with dazzling lights
not natural lights, not natural for the sky, but fire
and people, there's jagged scraps and glass, and people?
the plane slices the sky open with a painter's flourish, banking, we're floating here and ..
on the news, neighborhoods evacuate as they're torn apart with shrapnel
and fallen limbs at terminal velocity,
and are we still turning?
i can still hear the girl singing sad and forgotten leaving songs,
the drummer here slightly out of sync, the bubbles rise in my drink
will we ever land ...
onward, and the homes on fire are still etching lines into the bruised purple sky,
long orange and red and yellow fingers lashing at a sky that refuses to darken
in this twilight.
the colors cascade across the horizon as the wind catches embers,
drifting debris burning tracers across an endless skyline.
i'm at home and i'm alone and i'm afraid
and i can watch the entire world catch fire.
we're descending, i think, but i can't bring myself up from this
nostalgic perfume scents in my senses, i smell shampoo
and the fire has caught everything
everywhere in my field of view, is burning
the opening of a vent near my head, the cold fast air as it passes my ear
and i'm in the fire now, but it's not burning
i'm certain we've landed now, the inertia of my heart in my chest is pulling
as my watch my entire town, my life burned to cinders.