Seesaw

How hide in limbo, as lucid as new birth, tipping a lotic

pond? I knew it would come, a distant fever, a touch of

sadness. How is pain determined, surfing waves? It’s

a feeling, a mental spike, a demon’s whisper. A knell

has rung—to wring a spirit, headed for a crosswalk.

So many signs, where symbols speak, pointing to a

valley. I prop a pillow, squeeze a pen, and jot a paragraph.

It’s an outline—my heart, as melic as Greece. Something

wounds, both flesh and bone, cursed with eczema. I

try, breaking webs, ever to feel pressure—my soul. Lights

are flashing, all souls are bread, and Spirit leapt—city to

city. I fear not a furnace, schooled in so many fields,

unable to quell pain. It lives to linger, dissipating with

time, as effective as ten years of study. I speak to her,

courting her sister joy, ever to breathe—a faint abyss. This

is art, a touch of contrast, to visit both heaven and hell.