I wondered
What it must be like
To never touch bottom.
To grasp with toes fatigued,
Cramped from groping,
Aching for a slice,
A sliver of
Foundation.
To feel the ease
Of a stance
Only to be knocked
Askew,
To be swept away into
A current of undoing.
To take a breath
And hold it
And believe
That somehow
You could become
Buoyant
And that bobbing,
Skimmering across the surface
Would do.
Would do just fine.
Though your belly
Ached
For a tether.
I wondered
What it must be like
To hope,
When the very word
Falls from a language
Your ears don't decipher,
Your tongue can't seem
To touch.
To sense
Hope
As a vapor
Tingling against
Skin
Smelling of faint
Ash.
I wondered
What it must be like
To know the poverty
Of your own
Soul.
To peer into the
Empty bowl
And gape at the
Residue,
The remains of
Something,
Hints
Like rice grains
Stuck to the side.
To pace,
To growl
For beauty,
Insight,
One sweet moment
Of feathered
Peace.
I wondered
These things
As I watched
My neighbor
Pull at her sweater,
A dangling thread
She twisted
Around her finger
And pulled;
Twisted
And pulled;
Twisted
And pulled.
For those, or their loved ones, who struggle with Post Traumatic Stress or mental health issues.
