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“Something in flying alone”

There is something in flying alone…
Not a driver .. nor a  road… just… the “go”….

It’s not that I do it often…
It’s not that I love it..

To be ..I mean ..on my own…
But there is magic in piano tunes..
There is  zest in flying alone…
To my comfort zone…

It always starts… at night…
Me with conspiring car …
Fleeing..feeling just…bright…

It is not that I do it often
It’s not that I love it..

But even when I am far..and right..
There is guilt in being alone..
I am just a wasted kite…..

If I hit a sunset or sunrise..
I just cry …yes ..really cry..

Its not that I do it often..
It’s not that I love it..

But here… I don’t know if I live or …die…
So I weather..and cry…
There  is something in flying alone…
I just can  not… lie…

The movie.remains the same…
So why….for god sake..

I still feel the words slamming my face..

And why I still carry sorrows in my suitcase…
It’s not that I do it often..

It’s not that I love it..
But it seems a habit..

to  collect  the… pain..

There is ashes  in flying alone..
and I have to damp them… somewhere..

TarekOfCairo

I am reblogging this poem as it felt appropriate .. once again ..