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Flight 07
Suddenly, the weapons
of scripture flap open;
men power-walk down the aisle
and stick a processional cross
into the floor.
Us, trembling in our seats --
ones custom-made with threads
of our only known Gods.
Their words, a blade
perching near our throats --
"To the floor, now!
Else, we'll summon the plethora
of eternal flame!"
Then a map is handed
to the flight attendant.
We'll be conquered --
Seats ripped out, replaced
with theirs --
our once-famliar objects
sunk into an ocean
of mere memory.
