How long has it been since your last poem?
It's sounds like a priest inquiring about confession.
What corners do I dare not look around?
Why the starvation?
We drop out and then feel this dying inside.
Rolling along with this death.
Words carry as much as you'd like them to.
I can feel myself climbing up the rope now.
(Though there is no rope.)
I need those platforms in the sky,
To know they're there in case I fly.