Mountain

The spoils of war and the comfort of your home all locked up in a web of spiders silk and dusty blue Columbines. A mid-winter sky raging brilliant white electricity while I dig my fingernails into my palms. Open heart, shattered core, and a vibrant pain pulsing, silently underneath. Cover me. As I rise and fade and then rise again. Seperate a corner of the earth to hold me on and carve out an uneven foundation. I cannot be made to hold steady, unbalanced all over my life. Gripping the fear as it shoots thru my spine, equidistant from my shoulder blades, and I don't know what to do once I'm holding onto it. Each day is a mess of these laser lines flying thru my self, tangible and unreal. If I could just work my way back to the beginning. The very first shock of mental anguish, maybe I'd untangle some of my self. And maybe I'd just magnify the creaking, rotten cabin I've been building to hide inside. But it sure would be something to see. All my selfish turmoil laid out and choreographed. Placed precariously over bones full of bullet holes. So leave me with the sky. With no tourism in my head. I'm counting star patterns. I'm not afraid right now.