I burned myself on autopilot again;
thinking I knew this route like flame knows gas.
Yet, touch tingles when it turns the engine
like old friends mingle every day they pass.
I’d love to switch on autopilot, but
I need to feel the terrain, to sieve the leaves
spend my time at the tip of the crust
gauge my air, wanderings, gas, and needs.
Air under, air over: hawks know what chickens guess.
Survey our course to purvey our way.
Vision parodies the sun spots’ depths.
I trusted machines,
my biggest mistake;
The air pressure dropped,
the engine gave way.
I almost backed up
into a mountain today.
Heeeey why'd ya move the line breaks in the last stanza? Was there more to be said by moving them over to the right?
ReplyDeleteI liked this piece very much, btw. I kept smiling at it, but never wrote down that I felt it.
yeah, i kind of needed the space. don't know if it gives it more meaning, just more room to kinda breathe.
ReplyDeleteagain, flattered.