Zeppelin Repair

It’s a job I’m tasked with, and did I ask for it?

Eventually, yes… But not at first! My thirst

for such delicate work, at its absolute worst,

was forcefully unheeded and ignored for fear

that years would go by, and I’ll have learned nothing else.

But when I first felt canvas drawn over wire;

that sloping structure formed from piled flesh that breathes,

I knew that I could make my home there in between;

working to keep her aloft, should the engines fail.

My scope paled when compared to the reality;

faced with such size and shape, I just gaped and stuttered;

under spells like none ever uttered by a witch,

but of the recesses of the mind that bind you

when something incomprehensible rears and brays.

It was in this daze, I was enabled to grasp

and lift the shuttered clasp that caged these great balloons;

festooned by patterns and lace, made to seem graceful

in spite of the poisoned airspace they occupy,

the gravity they defy and the many eyes

they tend to draw while bounding across great, blue skies.

It’s been some time and my assignment has run dry.

I miss my days, nestling in the repair bays,

but have little say in when I might be deployed.

And though I’ve enjoyed some vessels over others,

what matters is that I’m smothered and left in awe

by magnitude, immensity, function and flaw;

visible through windows and doorways in the crawl.

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