flying | |
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) |