You write
so that when you fall,
your descent will be arrested,
by a silver net of words
tied in knots
onto the walls.
And you ask,
are they strong enough,
tough enough, tall enough,
what if they just break
so that you crash into
the floor?
So you write
and on you tie them
knots with bows
and knots with snarls,
knots with no one else around them,
knots fixed
into your soul.
For you know
the way you speak
in those tight,
serrated thoughts,
fingers stained with psychic ink,
so permanence
is taught.
And it never
ceases moving,
the story rolls forever,
blind and bullish,
never ending,
minds working
without a hold.
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