All that holds me
to this earth,
bound and abandoned,
are hope, dreams, and love.
A threefold cord, they’ve told me,
is not easily broken.
Nor should it be,
but the struggle
unravels
the way we’d like this
to end.
Clinging to life
by ethereal thread,
I hope it holds my dreams,
and love not sever it.
The force behind the hand grows tired.
The field where words roared and played
is barren of life,
full of bare trees, hard soil, muddy snow,
lost time, and regret.
I own the irretrievable
and the unacceptable.
My idle hands have doomed
my legacy to obscurity.
I tell myself
I do not care,
and wonder why
I’m weeping.
Beyond Panic 