Surrounded by souls aloft, I gasp
Aloud--stung to the very marrow--
By these words! These words, with vice-like grasp,
Immobilize the ego, harrow
The thoughts, and once again I approach
The precipice where, ex excelcis,
The urge to dive rises. To encroach
On it, autopathic distresses
Remind that the plummet will bring pain
And who exactly can know for sure
The landing that awaits?
                                               The airplane
                   Can such a faith long endure?
Returning to my study, I read:
"...that God is the most winsome of all..."
Surrounded by souls aloft, he pleads--
Stung to the very marrow, I fall