Impatient threads

These thoughts echo off my skull
then retreat back down my vertebrae,
as if one wave wasn't enough.

This withered frame of battered bones
can't save its contents any longer.
The organs have now taken siege.

This cold cave is rendered useless,
moving in a mechanical coma
holding on a twine of slowly fraying hope.
Swinging,
far from the ground looking down
as the earth's face glares morbidly back.

If I could sit on the breeze that cools some Goddess,
and carries her scent through this cave,
I'd add some flame to these dying embers
and warm these desolate has-been walls.

That wasn't hope, though I am a fool. No,
it was just a pitiful vision, a peasant's dream.

I know my weight and I know my twine, but
impatience knaws these threads.
As the twine snaps I fall quicker than a thought
to grace earth's frown with a stain.

In childhood once, a boy was free and smiled.
Now upon the saddened surface
I lay as an abstract red star.

Just before the earth stopped my flight
I saw smoke, bellowing
from the eroded, frozen cave.