Red Eyes

One might think
at four in the morning on a dark plane,
stars lighting up the head shaped window
with the gentle sparkle of surrealism,
that I would sink into my heavy, traveling body.
But the blanket of strange bliss
on the colder side of the glass
calls my name until sleep is no option.

One might think
at six in the morning on a dimly lit plane,
coffee-scented voices softly waking up
to the intimate space shared by 250 beating chests,
that I would munch on the delightful foreign breakfast
waiting patiently on my tray.
But the explosion on the horizon,
the messy painting of a well needed rest to come
breaks the heavy thoughts and precious dreams
sending them off into the never ending trampoline of clouds.