Progression: Flight 854 to LA
Written in my journal several years ago during a flight to LA and edited recently. Please feel free to ask any questions.
Forests run veins over the parched sandy skin
Mingled with threads of grey that can only be seen as dividers:
the order that portrays a super natural perfection onto the vast grid, stretching out below;
Brown, green, brown grey, green, and then: a sudden clutter of shining cubes
Where the veins meet
Where the flows clot
And in this divine domain where I now find myself placed,
With shining with keys of a futuristic feel.
I hear chanting voices projected into my mind
Through this dark tubing,
As the jealous zealot angels would cry. For here I sit,
Above the parched soul of neutral coloring
In a white shroud with shining silver sparkling off myself as I look out to see;
The Billows.
They seem as breath suspended in time, as whipped cream shot from a can into the fantasy conditions of the orbiting satellites.
Perfection, oblivion, sanctuary…
The Great Bird Flies.
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