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
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