Suitcase by Eoghan Lyng

Suitcase

Pass me a cigarette, I think there’s one there,
Share me a moment that’ll follow us,
Over a dreaming, gleaming sun filled glorious future.
I’m tired, so tired, dreary wearily sitting,
An airport lounge is pretty in her exterior,
But inferiority of a man flying, lying
To the great freight of a plane,
I’m scared.
Tired of falling, calling out to sing
To someone else “could you do this instead
Of me? This life ain’t normal and it’s tearing
The clin clad wears from my shoulder”.
I’ll halter for a minute and grin at someone
Who’s booze must have cost half of his suit
But if I shoot in speech patterns that don’t matter
To anyone else, I’ll fall flat from the plane,
Without changing direction, inside or out.
I’m tired now- I must sit down, I’ll tarry
And take my boots off – weightless be
The man who’s sense of enormity
Should stand himself beside a plane
Asking why he throws himself through
This never ending journey of seats
and stares and uncomfortable chairs
But it hurts to see the inhumanity
Of uncertainty that awaits these
Passers with passports ready and steady
To stamp and jump when called.
I’d like to fall- flat on my face
It’s a disgrace to ask anyone
To chance this queue for another
Prance they never knew had any sense
To their cents, euros or pounds.
That’s the lost and found, I’d better run
To fair tarry before this airport closes
Throwing myself in a state of frenzy.
I must hurry- this suitcase is heavy
But I can carry it. Where is my flight?

Pass me a cigarette, I think there’s one there,
Share me a moment that’ll follow us,
Over a dreaming, gleaming sun filled glorious future.
I’m tired, so tired, dreary wearily sitting,
An airport lounge is pretty in her exterior,
But inferiority of a man flying, lying
To the great freight of a plane,
I’m scared.
Tired of falling, calling out to sing
To someone else “could you do this instead
Of me? This life ain’t normal and it’s tearing
The clin clad wears from my shoulder”.
I’ll halter for a minute and grin at someone
Who’s booze must have cost half of his suit
But if I shoot in speech patterns that don’t matter
To anyone else, I’ll fall flat from the plane,
Without changing direction, inside or out.
I’m tired now- I must sit down, I’ll tarry
And take my boots off – weightless be
The man who’s sense of enormity
Should stand himself beside a plane
Asking why he throws himself through
This never ending journey of seats
and stares and uncomfortable chairs
But it hurts to see the inhumanity
Of uncertainty that awaits these
Passers with passports ready and steady
To stamp and jump when called.
I’d like to fall- flat on my face
It’s a disgrace to ask anyone
To chance this queue for another
Prance they never knew had any sense
To their cents, euros or pounds.
That’s the lost and found, I’d better run
To fair tarry before this airport closes
Throwing myself in a state of frenzy.
I must hurry- this suitcase is heavy
But I can carry it. Where is my flight?

Eoghan LyngEoghan Lyng is an Irish man, who has written from Cork, Madrid and Prague. Currently residing in Glasgow, Lyng continues to refine his work. Aided with the ability to write in English and Gaeilge, examples of his work have been published in Vada Magazine, From The LightHouse, An Gael-IrisLeabhar Idirnaisiúnta and his eponymous wordpress account.

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