Fancy's Flight

It was five years ago that,
wondering if I really saw The Skull and Crossbones in every valley of
the epic black propellor,
I boarded and took this sunny window seat five years ago.
I stumbled up from the cosmopolitan cold,
from the noise of hammers,
from the grunt-filled alleys,
fleeing the abrasion of legal tenders of dissection.
Beautiful years have I spent here,
sipping my 1998 Purple Griffin Cabernet,
viewing "The Magic Mountain,"
letting my fingernails take root in the pages of ancient
civilizations,
clipping along in my abstract plane
30,000 miles above the green valleys of The Netherlands.
But what goes up must come down,
the stewardess shakes apart the clouds of Narnia,
stitches together Kurtz's razor sliced snail,
and drowns out our cry of "Yes!" with rules of "No."
We will be landing in the state of reality in approximately fifteen
minutes;
conditions are freezing there:
your heart has frozen from betrayed love,
your veins have been flooded by a whole bottle of Courvosier,
and polar bears in tacky tuxedoes are eating the citizenry.
Please make your main-stream belts are securely fastened and that your
round table is in the up-right and locked position.
We are experiencing some rather preventable turbulence;
this could be a rough landing.