Trace lines upon my palms,
and you will see
intricate patterns, converging crossroads, sudden
Stops.
Deep, worn canyons can barely contain rushing rivers,
and shallow streams.

The slow trickle of curiosity
tickling toes and tugging gently with delicate fingers,
sheds flickering candlelight on a looming prospect
Of prosperity

Wind bites my ears,
tastes fear
of falling.

Whispers,
Maybe'¦

Flames lick feet faster than I can run,
Currents rage and roar,
shouts and screams impatiently at my back.

I'm holding on to nothing but a mud of memories.
Losing control,
slow motion slipping'¦
Then,

Eager Silence.

The lines are paved now ' smooth, soft,
gentle and kind.





In a flutter of wings, I am soaring above.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...