I breathe to slow the heart,
How long can I keep clinging to the art,
In acceptance of the fact,
That I am holding feeling, a part.
Solely to remain,
I am rendered in a continuous arc,
Composed between palms extended,
And shoulders locked,
Waiting on some unknowable motion.
Far from here,
Where every muscle screams,
Witnesses of unending stresses,
Not from pain,
It turns to mist in the falling rain.
But not from strain,
As doubt holds no reign.
In the question of the fact,
That I burn to remain,
I am stood in the half light,
Between the full light and night,
Clinging to the art,
In this unbroken arc.
Waiting on some unknowable,