Travel Villanelle

Airplane, airplane, where are you taking me,
Strange beddings, another home I do not know…
This dying man, this skeleton, aching to be free?

A shadow slipping along a moon lit Baltic sea,
Fevered mind and aching back, towards some lost hope I go…
Airplane, airplane, where are you taking me?

What would you have of me,
Whose bags are packed, tickets checked, now winging like a crow…
This dying man, this skeleton, aching to be free?

We gather grouped by numbers, isolated like Annabel Lee,
Shuffling forward, step by step, brain numbed by Bordeaux…
Airplane, airplane, where are you taking me?

They pat for chemicals, scan my stuff, eyes so empty,
Arranging bags and shoes, gels and laptops, add into the tableaux
This dying man, this skeleton, aching to be free?

I am jammed amongst them, this mob, petite bourgeoisie…
Are we just dolls, knocked around in a puppet show?
Airplane, airplane, where are you taking me,
This dying man, this skeleton, aching to be free?

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About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Poem, poetry, Travel, Vilanelle and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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