Pull the Ripcord

Some minds shut like rusted jail doors,  

locked tight, fearing the wind’s chatter.  

They turn inward, chasing echoes  

that bounce off cold, hard walls.  

The open ones, though—  

those are the parachutes,  

billowing in the freefall,  

catching gusts from a screaming sky.  

You can’t stitch courage  

into the fabric of the closed.  

They’d rather plummet clean and fast,  

daring gravity to prove its worth.  

But the open—  

they tumble through questions,  

ride the howling winds of doubt,  

and land in fields of strange colors.  

The fall is the same for everyone.  

The difference  

is who bothers  

to pull the ripcord.