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

tremors. 

                   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