Olympic Clouds

Soaring high and higher,
one step over the fields of death,
gossamer clouds with wings of white,
the Olympic man on his Olympic skis,
looks down at the valleys below,
at the stands of onlookers looking up,
waiting for one deadly maneuver,
the falling through the feeble clouds,
home of the white wings of death.
With adrenaline in his mouth,
iron in his heart, certainty in his mind,
he gathers them up in his satchel
to infuse them into his spirit,
the free from danger depository
where danger is only a word
and not an apprehensive feeling.
He gathers them up with the rudiments
of ski jumping ingrained in his being,
flying through the air with no fear,
complete faith in his abilities,
his self acclaimed title, “Death Defier,”
running through his spirit,
his swollen ego set to dwarf the world,
his body floating in liquid serenity,
his longing for the hill to kiss his skis,
his trust in their prophetic meeting,
his perfect landing ahead of all the rest,
feeling his gold medal
hanging around his neck,
and the world wrapped around his name.
All hail to the jumper who defied death,
the one who ran away from its clutches,
the one who tasted it but not swallowed it,
and didn’t let himself be swallowed,

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