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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Visitors of the Fall Some people don't climb down into your pit to lend a warm hand, they come only to measure with their gaze how deep the tar has you crammed, they lean over the edge of your abyss like crows made out of mist, and count with cold glass eyes how many wounds burn on your face, unkissed. They come with lanterns snuffed to see you, not to light your way, their footsteps on the rim of your grave write only smoke and dust that stray, their smile is a counterfeit coin tossed into the well of your pain, their compassion — a parchment the tooth of time gnaws through again. They make certain you have fallen hard enough, sunk deep enough down, so you'll never catch up with them along their circular road around, their happiness is a crooked scale that tips only when you break, they breathe relieved to see that in your chest just shattered glass you rake. But my mourning visitors don't know, my frozen crows of sleet, that from the bottom of the pit the sky looks cleaner and more sweet, that the earth which swallowed me whole is the same that feeds the wheat, that from the broken root the stream springs back, more stubborn in its beat. My fall has been a school where they have never set a single foot, I've learned to make a ladder out of darkness, flight from stone and soot, every humiliation stitched me up inside with thread of fire, every eye that watched me falling honed my outline sharper, higher. And when I rise up from the pit — not crawling, but mast-straight and tall, I will not seek them out to hurl the stones that burn in me at all, I'll pass them by the way a river passes by its silent shore: too whole to count who wished to see me at the bottom anymore.
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