The following poem is an extracted piece I removed from the original manuscript of RIGIL—where he poetically lays out the moment in flight when abstracting his imaginary happy place.
Sunday, June 30, 2024
Ever laid bored above a plane seat tray?
The first time I did, we flew for half a day.
Head down, looking through to the ground,
Envisioning land and plants that frown,
…from a lethal spray—vegetation, it drowned,
And many walks from a home through an exile’s town.
But what can’t they take if they cannot spray?
A bodily temple of goodness and grace…
Within Mahan of the Piers,
An embodiment of perfections.
Infrastructures through mind,
Like neurotic connections,
Goddess protections,
…because they can’t burn this land I brought.
They can’t stand this village I thought,
Discovered a mile above our tortured crops.
Neither did I earn this image,
But see this village,
Through a deed of vision,
We, Children of the sphere—dared to see it,
A place of which no artist should color—
No artist would bother,
Nor alter,
This Is Where BuddWrites 