The inkling in my heart tells me it’s not enough, it’s never enough. Can I trust my heart?

This thing, this effervescent draping of itself over my swollen soul, it comes and it goes, like so many sparkly bubbles.

The sun rises, climbs, steady as she goes, higher into the daylight of my life, reaching into the songlight of my hope, leaping into my eyes and flooding them with their own sense of full. Filled. Fullness, perhaps, I sink.

Down. Down into the places I dare not venture alone, shadowed semblances of my distant self, and peer do I into that void. Snort my chuckle and sing my drums.

In the deep.

She sits there, anew, Today, legs swinging over the edge of the cliff, as she calmly, bemusedly watches me, scoffs at me, sings my song and coughs at me.

Dirt mouth. Dust lungs. Dry the rasp, hoarse the raking sounds of night and the dying echoes of day and I sit here, bemused by all I can see. Unperishable we stand, perished, unstable and stuck to our foundations, we refuse to move beyond the boundaries of our own design and making.

No one glued us here.

There is no law.

Winds blow. Trees rustle. And I, I am confronted by this confounding and consorting truth: I’m not stuck here.