La Petit Mort

Darkness at the peak of the mountain..
shameless melting glacier,
dripping through time
falling
into
it
~
A ripple, a fold, a place that bends that I can’t hold.
Things start to look like a smear,
whispered things I cannot hear;
a rushing river,
swollen with ice.
A breath is gasped,
and the present pulls
away from that twisting
sacred place.
~
The times I struggle to breathe,
precious air, commodity bodily autonomy;
pulsating visions,
a whole lifetime
condensed to thirty seconds,
the rush of climax,
of relief,
when I fell and didn’t hit the floor,
it was calm.
Release.