|
| 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) | |
