Air-Sickness

If I look out my window all I see below are clouds suspended between the heavens and earth, unsure of their design,.
They look inviting, somewhere I'd like to rest my head.
Somewhere I'd like to rest my bones.
But I'm told they're lies, illusions of comfort followed by crippling dismay.
So I'm stuck in this flying machine, the product of an over-ambitious mind.
I'm not a bird, I should not fly, my feet yearn for the ground.
I don't trust the wind to hold us, the wind changes its mind too many times.
Where will we end up? I cannot say.
If I look out my window, all I see below are perfectly planned grids.
Those little squares of brown and green are too organized for my taste.
Much too organized for my taste.