abstract arachnid atmosphere atmospheric

Lifting my wounded strategies,
bearing my own oblivion, 
I am no more than 
the water skipper’s race across the surface,
the caterpillar’s dangle from silk.

The world calls me; out of me,
inch-by-inch, chest-to-chin, 
heart skitters, fear of mis-step, 
above, beyond, what is below 
each precious, unique expression
held by the same silver thread.

And then something falls and does not get back up. 

As it is—and it is—life lost without apology; we cannot know.

Hold, catch, carry each other.

There is only today—


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