This fear of flying:
all this effort involved
in leaving the ground
with these wings
never mine to begin with.
envisioning heights, having leapt
just to find those prodigal bones
shattered, returned to their earth.
Yet momentum is building
unchecked now, its force
propelling, compelling me on,
to a state, situation,
I haven't yet made the decision
to surrender myself,
no landmarks, no instruments
telling me where I should be.
So which would be better to shatter:
this thing I'd call I
or this power to dream?
This fear of flying alone:
are the sights of 
unbounded clouds
of the ground's rush 
receding, exalting me,
worth this?
  Jon Bohrn (1999)



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