Zip Lines and Floors

I live in the fall, the dying nation between two worlds. I am barefoot, strapped to a catapult. I toil where the dark storms brew. I see you there, like the armrest between the discomfort, and the sadness. And I see you standing staunchly, as if the answers are in the lightning you seek. It is only me. And I reside here, where all lands die, not where you can find comfort in your lost lack of liberation. I know you wish for color in the grey, but I am ash in the pot you burned, not the rainbow for which you yearned