I climb to the top of the high tower,
peer down at the bucket of water below.
Yes, I could dive, down, down, down,
into those few inches of liquid and survive.
But the daredevil adventure
doesn’t say enough about me,
so I descend the ladder
to the disappointed sneer of crowds.
Same with the thin wire stretched between skyscrapers.
Oh I could walk across it all right,
on one leg if I had to.
And riding a barrel over the falls…
as easy as driving to the corner shop for bread.
Jump canyons on my motor-cycle…
not a problem.
Dive through fiery hoops…
with my eyes closed.
But I’m out to white water raft
down a raging river of blood.
I long to spelunk in the intestine,
scale the wall of guts.
And parachute into a brain sure,
while hacking at the feasting thoughts.
The world around me is dangerous up to a point
but I stare long in a mirror,
eye-ball to eye-ball with a face
whose risks are infinitely greater.
I run the gauntlet in there
with no guarantee of my survival.
The heart of spears, the soul of swords…
and weary flesh to accommodate
these wounds where I live.
About John Grey
