Am I dead?
The answer whispers
As dew-filled cobwebs hum in
The morning breeze.
I struggle to listen, but the
Echoes of the bullet
Crash through my being.
Shattering silence to the summit,
My want to listen is dwarfed by the
Omnipresent need to be heard,
But the words are lost to my memories
With me for me by me
Shall I be heard at the peak
Or shall my voice be lost in distance?
Clouds struggle for presence, nothing more.
I am lost in the ecstasy of
Past emotion, mixing fervently; tossing
Ruptured pieces from the rocky slope.
The wind feels good
Something sets in and I reach forth, seeing
Nothing, no rules, recognition; the
Endless stretch of an empty sky
Consumes my fingertips
I reach back and cry.
My tears fall, becoming a storm.
Cloudless and quiet; wet a rainbow
Quiet now, the answer whispers louder…
Am I dead?
Cobwebs dance.
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