Or, it doesn’t.
Then, it moves at the pace of bedlam, stopping, starting,
Over again, again. Weaving through the fingers and rings of an Old, Lost Queen.
She breathes quietly.
Alone, the Solitude can murder and hate, or lift into the moonlight.
There is no up or down, no left or right, just the Caught.
That peculiar taste of knowing there is very little one can actually do.
It barks and bites the back of a tongue, held silent by flight.
An Edge.
Yes, it is close. It beckons, promising to be the releasing angel, the stave that will oddly hold up what is left.
But I sit, locked in time. In and out of it all.
I do wonder what remains. You see, blindness, well . . . it comes and goes, laughing furiously, madly.
One never comprehends when the flow of Inertia will rave and dance, holding everything taut,
Anxious and Panic, her children, wanting to play another game of Chutes and Ladders.
Yet, I do see. One does still have eyes.
Whether they open to Oblivion or just rest on the image of Nature, never vexing on how she will eat or drink, . . .
She broods not.
And, it is of no matter.
This too, shall pass.
Image Credit: "Tree Leaving Earth Jigsaw Puzzle" by Gianfranco Weiss
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