Mimicking Birds – The Chimney Sweep
I slipped fate.
The coarse, rough, and fear
feeling midpoint.
Trampling medians between
The plunge and the numb.
Some doubt grows and fades.
A dying breath
thick with spit and
maybe this is right.
Maybe I’m comfortable with this.
Or maybe my compass got stuck a long time ago.
Either way I don’t think I’m that OK.
Rebirth.
It takes nine months to come to this.
Every child begins the world again,
to some extent,
and so have I.
And I will not stop dying.
One day The Ship will sail.
And I’ll be on it.
image: fiddle oak
Seasinks
acraein 