The winds change unexpectedly
setting everything in chaos
and in turn I become airborne.
I will hold no malice or scorn,
from flapping my arms so quickly.
It is a sickly guttural
with which I’m dealing, a feeling
of freedom and some kind of angst.
and if someone would fetch me an
air sick bag, things would go a lot
If music soothes the savage breast
my guess is that primal screaming
cure the flippy stomach I’ve got.
I hate to fly, if you haven’t
Gusts and upheavals, retrievals
of my wits, i have these fits when
© Walt Wojtanik – 2012