Creature Speak

There is a thin film over my feeling self 
to keep me from my own depths.

The benefit is a split-second of stillness 
so small I have to sense my breath 
to notice.

The subtle change in rhythm.  
The modicum of a drop 
in my own gravity, 
evident in my shoulders.

I cannot grab the fraction of stillness 
to hold on to because my hands 
are too weak from burning arms 
trying to hang from dreams 
for too long.

So now the moment comes, 
and then it is gone, 
like a million little deaths in a row.

A flutter of wings from my own soul 
flying off far away 
from any semblance of sinking.

The rise of a breath 
and the inevitable descent.  

Stillness waits for the pause 
on the other side of polarities, 
in a place with nowhere left to fall 
and only room to fly.

©2023, Sheya Forest