Thin Air
The air is thin
at 34,000 feet
where the old man left the plane behind.
He flew on ahead,
far, far ahead,
to the one destination
that all are helplessly bound to find.
Without a heartbeat
his face finished smiling,
as if once again a young boy;
perhaps death shall be - and is -
the last and greatest
enduring joy.
Every bird that has ever flown
by it's own weight
comes back down;
every vapor that rises,
by lack of weight,
is never again earth-bound.
Life is strange
at 34,000 feet,
where the air is so thin;
out where souls soar
beyond broken bodies
that have forgotten how to grin.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Added by Poetry Lover
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