Empty headed at 32,000 feet

sudden fatigue; suddenly restless

hopes for inspiration

traveling south quicker than I am


The plane hurtles through the sky

I see clouds and fog where

they allege Newfoundland is.


No moss covered longhouses

jutting out of the ground

hiding from pillagers.


I look out my little portal

& I see nothing

which sadly mirrors

the thoughts in my head right now.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

That's what I get for trying to write a poem flying home from Iceland.  It rained there and it rained here and I just couldn't find a rhythm.

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allets's picture

To Pick Up The Miles

and see the globe, miraculous! slc