35,000 feet; light speed
The jet departs from the hanger of hustle and bustle, trend.
The ascent is upward but the force backward, like running in to hurricane winds.
Propulsion begins, as does pressurization to drums within.
Sublimation, during the cruise at speeds long unfathomed.
Descent in tribulation much the likes of sitting in a box being hit by a boxing champion.
Arrival with anticipation, curiosity of a changed nation.
Opened doors, and hugs of love and admiration, talks of travel and the journey to a 'new' destination.
In the end, on the journey from the hanger to home you realize the only thing that has changed is the use of what's on the hanger and what's being warn.
Comments about this poem (35,000 feet; light speed by Jeff Rushton )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings