It never fails.
Around five thousand feet
Blissful apoxia sets in,
And I know I’ve come home.
The grinning begins.
Either soaked in golden sun,
Or buffeted by icy blasts,
My growing addiction to
Adrenaline and endorphins
Is betrayed by the grin.
And I know I’ve come home,
On attaining the peak,
I collect my reward when
Looking there from the top,
Exaltation is unfailingly
Tempered with a piety
I haven’t otherwise got.
And I know I’ve come home.
When the overload occurs
I could scream out, but don’t.
Each tingling sinew of my flesh
And blue spark in my mind
Are roaring cathartic melodies.
Screaming isn’t pious anyway,
And I don’t do it at home.
On inevitably departing,
The grin will sometimes linger,
But more often, I am weighted,
Sobered, in knowing my descent
Is also into sickly artifices.
And I know I’m not at home.
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