I.

I steer this body—not with hands, but with thoughts. 

Not with heart, just the cold precision of mind. 

Day after day, I fly across the endless sky, 

But the plane beneath me hums a life I don't own. 

Its engines roar, its metal wings stretch wide, 

Yet I, the pilot, feel distant— 

Like an island alone, cut off from the flight, 

Lost in the cockpit of my thoughts.

I lift the yoke, and still, the earth spins below, 

A canvas painted in greens and browns I can't feel. 

I bank left, I glide, I climb, but even the heights— 

They mean nothing when there's no wind in your soul. 

These hands may grip the controls, 

But there's no joy in the ascent, no fear in the descent. 

This steel body obeys without question, 

Living a life I never quite touched.

And where am I headed, if not toward an end? 

Is there meaning in the path or just the journey itself? 

I circle the skies, eyes fixed on distant stars, 

But none of them shine for me. They burn for the plane, 

That gleaming shell that moves but doesn't live, 

That carries me but doesn't care for the burden.

II.

I remember the first time I sat in this seat— 

A young pilot, unscarred by the weight of the sky. 

I thought the journey would shape me, 

That the places I'd go would make my name. 

But now the journey repeats in endless loops, 

And I, behind the dials and glass, 

I am nothing but a shadow, guiding a shadow.

The world below is vast yet small. 

Each city blends into the next, 

Each runway is just another mark on the map— 

But none on my soul. 

I touch the ground, but it feels foreign, 

Like a dream, I can't quite remember. 

And when I take off again, the weight of the earth 

Remains unseen, unfelt, and unencouraging.

III.

The plane and I, we're tethered together, 

But it's a bond of use, not love. 

I don't sing with its engines, 

I don't dance with its wings. 

I drive it forward, 

Like a cart through fields of flowers that never bloom, 

Through towns where no faces meet my eyes.

The body obeys, as it always does— 

Rising when I will it, turning at my command. 

But its movements are hollow, mechanical. 

I don't feel the air rush past its skin, 

Or the sun warming its frame. 

I, the pilot, encased in this cockpit, 

I remain untouched by the world I fly through.

And so the journey continues, 

An endless flight over landscapes I'll never know, 

Through clouds I'll never touch, 

Until the fuel runs out, 

And the plane finally lands. 

A landing that means nothing to me, 

For I, the pilot, never truly flew.

IV.

Is this the fate of everyone who pilots their life, 

To steer but never feel, to aim but never land? 

Is there a way to merge with the plane, 

To live inside the metal skin, 

To breathe the sky, not just see it through glass? 

Or are we all condemned to float above the earth, 

Watching, but never touching— 

Guiding, but never living?

And if this body is a plane I cannot love, 

Then what of the soul that drives it? 

What happens to the pilot when the flight is over, 

When the engines stop and the wings fold in? 

Do I descend into a life I never knew, 

Or fade into the clouds, 

A forgotten name on a forgotten map?

V.

But still, I steer. 

Still, I guide this hollow craft through skies unknown. 

Though I'm only the pilot, 

And the plane is only a shell, 

I will fly. 

What else is there other than this flight? 

This endless reaching toward the ground 

I may never feel beneath my feet. 

What else is there but to pilot on, 

In search of a sky that might finally 

Feel like home?

VI.

Beneath me, cities grow and shrink, 

Tiny grids of light flickering, fading— 

As if they, too, are unsure of their place, 

Suspended between earth and sky. 

And yet, I see them only through glass, 

The hum of my engines louder than their cries, 

Drowning out the whispers of lives lived below, 

While I remain untouched, unfazed.

I wonder if they see me— 

A silhouette against the dark sky, 

A distant speck in their collective gaze. 

Do they envy my flight, 

Or pity the solitude of my journey? 

Do they imagine the freedom, 

Without knowing the chains 

That bind the pilot to the plane?

There are no eyes in this cockpit but mine, 

No hands on these controls but my own— 

Hands that tremble under the weight of stillness, 

Longing for connection 

To something beyond the horizon, 

Something real, something grounded. 

But the plane flies on, 

And I'm bound to its course.

VII.

Sometimes, the clouds part, 

Revealing the stars beyond, 

Distant, unreachable, cold. 

I wonder if they, too, are pilots, 

Alone in their paths, 

Guiding their light through the endless dark, 

Tracing courses we'll never see, 

Shining for no one but themselves.

And what of me, a pilot without a cause? 

Is this flight my fate or my prison? 

A journey I chose or one I was thrust into? 

I feel the weight of decisions never made, 

Of paths untaken, of wings that never soared. 

I am the captain of this hollow craft, 

But the sky offers no answers, 

Only more miles to cross, 

More clouds to disappear into.