Photo by Dikaseva
Both hands are tied;
The strings, an intricate pattern
Just barely co-existing,
A mere second away from getting tangled
And messing up the show.
She manages to maneuver
All important pieces of her soul
Separating them, letting them meet.
Dancing a delicate dance
That only she knows the steps to.
But tugs at both her hands continue
The tangles keep getting tighter.
Her platform is now a stage
And her strings are controlling her;
The puppeteer now a puppet.
Is it the calm before the storm, she wondered,
Or the silence after its destruction?
Opening her eyes, she found the world still shattering.
The rhythmic movement calms her
If only for the time being.
If only in a bus ride,
At least there is some movement in her life.
She can see why people are attracted
To dangerous, adventure sports.
There is such beauty
In choosing acceleration.
Such power one must feel
Falling headfirst, bungee-jumping.
Not being dragged down, but shooting like an arrow
And assurance of bouncing back up.
Such peace one must feel
While running a marathon
Follies and stabs of regret
Not catching up for some time.
The fears start bubbling up
As she sees her bus-stop in the distance.
For when the bus halts,
So does the variation in her life.
The Writer's Nest 