Safe to Land

The tower says wait.

Circling, circling,

the engines blaring like a question no one will answer.

I see the runway below,

but it’s cluttered—

shattered pieces of what was,

sharp edges of almost,

wreckage from the last attempt

that never quite cleared.

I was supposed to land by now.

Wheels down, feet steady,

but every time I start descent,

something shifts—

a gust of doubt,

a sudden flash of memory,

the wreckage rising like ghosts.

So I hold.

Trace the same sky over and over,

burning fuel,

waiting for clearance.

And I wonder—

how long before the weight of waiting

before it's safe to land.