How do I let go enough to be held in your arms when every moment is a struggle for me to hold myself together, and all I want to do is fall apart?
You may think you are strong enough for both of us but I know you want to fall apart too.
Tremors in your hands left over from the aftershock of the fall, when you abandoned your wings to find me here.
The demands of this life scrape like sand paper on open wounds.
Your mind churns on the dissonance between pleasure and obligation, like a trash compactor makes garbage a manageable size to make us feel better about landfills.
When all you want is to find places with less gravity for the wingless to fly: thin spots to rise above the wasteland.
And I’m searching for them, too, because gravity and I don’t get along. It’s like the symphony of this world doesn’t recognize my song.
The signature of my essence is flawed and my card to exist is refused. So you use your card for two, and credits are running out.
We contend with pressure and doubt like David and Goliath, and it looks like the giant might win.
But who is the giant with a soft spot for stones, and who has the strongest aim?
Giants don’t know what it’s like close to the ground, and he didn’t see it coming when his feet were bound by David’s many men.
So it looked like a mere stone did the giant in, because no one saw him trip under the clouds.
It’s amazing what crowds can do to cover truth and mask the culprit of the looting or the riot, or take down giants mistaken for tyrants.
Funny how things appear from incredible heights when the camera is pointing up, like the holy grail in the shadow of a paper cup.
But we chase the shadows of miracles and dreams for the chance one might be what it seems:
The key to the treasure chest at the bottom of the Avalonian sea where we hid our wings in case we ever needed them again.
Copyright © Sheyorah Naify, 2021