I know my sustenance here is but in brine,
With singeing cuts and punctures and gash,
Aging slowly, skilling every pain and plague,
Amply seasoned with tears and nightmares.
I know the face in the mirror is not mine,
A form, besmirched and weak stares back,
But for the eyes, an evanescent knowing,
A telling that stirs vicious storms in my gut.
My spirit, a hull listing, a gust short of drowning,
Well nigh swooning to the rhythm of benthos,
Dancing into its call even as fear embalms me,
And before I know, I look into the eyes of abyss,
Am I ready, am I willing… to fall now?
I turn back just once, for a strange longing buds,
Comfort in the known, even if wretched was all,
And just like that, a sigh, a pull, a surrender,
I fall and oh how I flew!