Unpicking myself from
cotton-joy days,
I had expected a
puncture,
a soft deflation,
relaxation of form
to a thin reed of air
that may ventriloquize, beautifully,
an existence tapering
into something
tragic.
A paradox of Sisyphus, reality,
it left my sketch in
tatters. I saw myself, driving
myself like a sherpa, toiling
down truncated
mountain-stairs; skirted
claws of scoring briars
I had grown from a seed in my mind.
Descent was all mine, wholly blind.
I think I’d to be a balloon,
even without the sights at the top -
I could exhale
and be grounded.
cotton-joy days,
I had expected a
puncture,
a soft deflation,
relaxation of form
to a thin reed of air
that may ventriloquize, beautifully,
an existence tapering
into something
tragic.
A paradox of Sisyphus, reality,
it left my sketch in
tatters. I saw myself, driving
myself like a sherpa, toiling
down truncated
mountain-stairs; skirted
claws of scoring briars
I had grown from a seed in my mind.
Descent was all mine, wholly blind.
I think I’d to be a balloon,
even without the sights at the top -
I could exhale
and be grounded.