Skydiving

A true test of wit and faith
Is not governed by consolidation with the heavens.
Self-constituted earthquakes
Pattern the skies with unending flurries
Of arc-angels,
Constantly plucking their harps,
Though distinctly out of tune with the clouds.
But if these harps were forever tuned,
Insecurity would never end.

Once the final diminished note is played,
The soil will split.
And although only a tiny slit,
It is big enough for those who fall from grace
To slip between.