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
	into this wild 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?