I've plucked the wings
from an angel to see
if it would die.
It takes only an instant.

Like a test for pagan
cast into the water.
If I float
I've sinned.

My bare feet are roots
they have firm, clear contact
with the earth that conducts.
Live wire 
giving so generously
and gravity taking.

With each precious breath
I ponder my next step and wonder
if the angels do catch me
where would they carry me?
Do I dare doubt?
For doubt is heavy.
Metal.

Gusty wind stings
exposed nerves from
shakti burns.
Old scars and wounds
they crust and crumple away
like dry, dead leaves
scattered in the wind.

It hurts.

You could choose to
feel it all and drink 
every last drop
from this cup of pain...

or you could pour it
down the drain
run away and hide from it
or bury it
figure it out
fall in love with something
anything but it...

but it will erupt again
one day like lava
like the Phoenix resurrected
stronger than before
demanding to be reckoned with...

A paradox that is exactly
what it appears to be...

Just a bit past the edge
I look down and up
in one motionless motion.
The beauty of some ancient rhythm
takes me to my knees and
I can hear the laughter
of children bubbling like a waterfall.

Is that me?

My inner child so light
gravity could hardly see.

The young ones whose personalities
are more subtle, 
resonate with archetypes clear 
like diamonds glistening in light
most reflective of the primal us.

They have wings because 
they believe that they do.
They are free to fly in eternity.

At the edge of this cliff
I'm ready to jump and either fly...
or die.

Either are the same to me now.                                            © 1998 by David Bozzi