Dusk.
A cliff.
Below: clouds, a river of them
Flowing between
The valley of my heart.
The sun sunk beneath
The red cotton wisps.
Is this
A river of blood
Or the river of souls?
I’m turning.
Turning.
A whirlwind unpinned and flipped
Inside out.
behind these irises
I feel it pick me up.
Catapult me over mountains
And down into
The deepest part of myself.
Unsettled,
I wilt and wither
On a ledge.
My legs
Are those legs?
Are they stems?
Cut out from under me.
And with my
Dying petals,
Reach out to grasp
Grass.
It doesn’t hold.
I’m falling.
Falling into the abyss of unknowns
and
I wish I didn’t know.
In the darkness I hear laughter,
At first comforting and kind.
It slowly morphs
Into unhinged rage.
I wake on a rasp.
Who is driving?
I cannot ask;
My voice box broke.
I reach with rubber arms
Towards a wheel
I cannot reach.
My eyes are weak.
Am I driving?
I can’t drive from the back seat.
Why can’t I stay awake?
This hill is steep.
If I can’t make it to the front…
I have to wake up.
Fire now.
Hot around me
in my metal cage.
Being in the driver’s seat
Doesn’t mean much,
Then the wheels stick to the road.
Burning rubber assaults my senses
I’m lost.
I do the only thing I can;
I drive us all
off the nearest cliff
and into the sea.
I wake before we hit.
I’m lost.
Or found.
But without finding
Whatever I needed to find.
And it’s lost,
Whatever it is.
Maybe it’s me.
I’m so scared.
I keep moving.
Always keep moving.
Search.
Seek.
Never accept that some things
Aren’t meant to be found.
Sometimes,
That includes yourself.
I will always wake before I find it.