People move like a giant centipede
gnawing off its own legs.
They fold into origami figures,
psychedelic paper planes
with wings already broken.

Astute zombies wait in line,
serenaded by safety instructions
from bored air stewards.
Gas masks located,
inner joy on hold.

The pilot wears the title
of on-call grim reaper.
Tiny plastic bottles
anaesthetise the panic,
while passports are clutched
like Willy Wonka’s last ticket.

Friends made and lost
in hell’s waiting room.
Funny how we arise only to descend,
a rotating cast of volunteers
for gravity’s final joke.