The Weight Is Lifted

The weight is lifted and there rests a wooden beam, a bar, a balanced space between A morning and a night. A sleeping hand lays exposed on its battered frame and a body is hidden as Wisps of hair attempt to run along the field by a winded saddle. Parts never moving and others never there. Always able and flirting with waiting here in-between, while the yellow paint chips stick and scatter on a sleeping cat you overfeed this morning.