If you chance find this poem,
please do not attempt reply.
Just fold it back into its shape
and toss it toward the sky.

I launched it late last night,
out the window in my room,
a sort of self-made prison space
above my future tomb.

Thirty years I’ve toiled
on this edifice of gold.
Performing tasks I scarce enjoy,
a slab of me I sold.

Just a wishful poet,
when you cut me to my core.
Perhaps, some day, I’ll muster strength
and become someone more.

This airplane sent aloft,
out on the chill night air,
it is a verse from Morpheus,
a hope, a dream, my prayer.