As I made my

run to the edge,

preparing the leap

that would prove

my faith, I heard

a poet, or a 

wayward priest,

or maybe a 

criminal, someone

who said something

true. I held my

leap and went 

back for more.

Others flailed

into space

screaming “NO!”

as they spun

out of sight.

A very few leapt

whispering “yes”

-sad, but at

least it was

something.

The rest fell

in silence, old

habits hard to

kill. 

 

To say a

criminal knows

truth, saves lives,

is no more

believable than

to say it of 

a priest, except

the wayward.

Do not say it

of a poet,

he may close

his book and

never speak

again.