Those truth turns, watch the spins,
as you plummet downhill, this way
and that, amidst blinding whiteness.
It’s all a freefall once you jump.
The goal is bliss.
You race for it, precarious,
through the twists and bends,
which come at you, pell mell,
without rhyme or reason.
Headlong is the only direction.
The challenge is Olympian –
trying to get to the end of the
slalom between love and oblivion
without breaking your neck, heart,
soul, spirit.
Wipeout threatens each negotiation.
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