sitting in the bottom of a well
and the light is my anchor.
holding me together and holding me down-
the slightest of rope will tingle down-
and be ripped away.
the light- looks perfect from here
a land explored and forgotten
a chance to stand and create for the martyrs.
soft to the touch
skin so vacant the air marked as trespassing
contact of these cold bricks is the warmth
of the sun and quiet of the moon
all in a convenient place.
The rope will return-
dangle and pull
the climb is always short-lived
before cut down.
the links of time crawl like worms around my toes
and I’ll shove them down my throat
to taste what could be-
before death can come near the rope will return
and dangle.
Saint's Muse 