I wrote this little poem so long ago. Then I wrote an instrumental piece of the same name. Somehow not matching these words at all. Well, that’s me. Flying Often seen as a romantic dream, A wish to escape and fly. To far distant places, Of cities and races, To see and believe our own eyes. I have fled these shores gladly, Many times in my days. But one constant pain, Is sitting in planes, For hours and hours and hours. It takes a week, for an hour to pass, On a plane, in a seat, All squashed up, swollen feet. Cannot move, trapped and belted, Watching people, who never
Flying
