Journey Home

Seatbelt clicks tight...
Cabin pressure crushing the temples.
Ice fading behind the wing.
But the head...
still turning.
Yeah...
Still flying.
Three boats.
Two planes.
Still flying home.
Storm in the skull.
Salt in the lungs.
Still flying home.
Three boats.
Two planes.
Still flying home.
still flying...
still flying...
First boat buckled in
black Arctic chop,
Hull cracked hard
where the icebergs knocked.
Salt wind cut
like a blade in the lung,
Orders snapped short
through the diesel cough.
Crew hands slipped on
the frozen rail,
Rope lines lashed in
a screaming gale.
Every wave hammered the
ribs of the hull,
Every mile north felt
like dragging hell.
Second boat smaller,
engine choked thick smoke,
Prop chewed waves
like a dying throat.
Diesel breath mixed
with the iron taste,
Knuckles split raw on
the frozen brace.
Third boat silent,
horizon bit the dark,
No stars left,
just the compass spark.
Every mile felt
like hauling a corpse on ice,
Mind locking tight in the vice.
Now the first small plane,
prop hammering air,
Wings shaking loose
like the nerves in my chest.
Three boats.
Two planes.
Still flying home.
Storm in the skull.
Salt in the lungs.
Still flying home.
Three boats.
Two planes.
Still flying home.
home...
home...
Second small plane screamed
through the cloud,
Pilot's jaw locked,
knuckles white on the yoke.
Turbulence slammed
like fists
through the ribs,
Flashbacks cracked every breath
that I took.
Bad place whispering names
in the dark,
Faces half-buried in ice
and salt.
Every blink drags the shoreline back,
Every thought hits the
same locked fault.
I count the rivets
across the wing,
Watch frost crawl along the skin.
Cabin quiet
but the skull still roars,
Like breakers smashing within.
Now this last flight,
bigger bird,
smoother glide,
But the seat feels
welded to bone inside.
Three boats.
Two planes.
Still flying home.
Storm in the skull.
Salt in the lungs.
Still flying home.
Three boats.
Two planes.
Still flying home.
storm in the skull...
Breathe slow...
Don't break.
Waves still...
in your head.
Landing gear thumps in
ten minutes flat,
City lights crawling under the wing.
Everyone calm in their soft-lit seats,
Reading screens
like the world ain't cracked.
But my skull keeps replaying
the hull slam sound,
Ice grinding steel
where the ropes snapped down.
I survived the boats.
Survived the planes.
But the bad place lives
where the waves still pound.
Discipline says stand tall
when the door swings wide,
But the tide still turns inside.
Three boats.
Two planes.
Still flying home.
Storm in the skull.
Salt in the lungs.
Still flying home.
Three boats.
Two planes.
Still flying home.
Three boats...
Two planes...
Head still turning.
Still...
flying home.