Touch of the mirror with the backside of my hand
seeing chocolate eyes that melt at the edges,
reminding me its time for a leap.
Falcon Sound - M.Weisgerber
He settled on the name 'plunge', then jumped
sending body on a cartwheel course through midair
catching nimbus between open toes, whilst screaming aloud.
And dropping.
Oh yes, dropping still; creating a secondhand view of the 21st century.
Not feeling gravity's lore, not stuck on simple sounds,
while blending others around tissues scarred.
If we could fill the void with jello, his decent would be slowed, yet still remain graceful
Wishing he could hang forever in midair.
Stealing any precious seconds to remain in flight.
Not stuck on the rocks climbing, upwards.
Not picnic dreams, snared in near briar patches.
Not love, I know not that name; wish to merely cheat death again.
Or strike flesh on the outcropping below, surviving for yet another day.
It's a different sort of backpack worn,
while hanging amidst the ice flows & blue seas.
Pack heavier than your average knapsack.
How odd to touch air, yet not feel the cold.
Or gurgle on the slush blood wrapped inside crimped veins.
To feel bare feet amidst the howling winds, and not care.
