Two Years

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Two years ago,

an inked needle tied the fate

that has had me glancing

at the sky every day.

Two years I have spent wondering,

little plane in the breeze,

where are you heading?

Is where you land called Home?

Two years of my life,

growing and stretching,

hurting and healing.

No idea where I'm heading,

or if I would call it home.

Is it a fated needle after all?

I fear at times it is all in my mind,

something I conjured to pass the time.

Little plane in the breeze,

are you like me,

directionless and hovering weightlessly,

observing what's beneath?

Two years from now,

will I have my answer,

or will I still be projecting my ideas onto aircrafts?

My, my little plane,

I get it now.

There is no bigger meaning but this one:

Two years ago,

an inked needle tied the fate

that has had me glancing

at the sky every day.