#chobanwrites

Stagnation is a constant.

Tethered to a single straight line

That doesn't stray from its path,

And never, ever fluctuates.

In the corner of my eye,

There is a hummingbird moth,

An outlier amongst the bees,

Nurturing the daisies.

It bridges the gap of night and day;

After every spin of the earth,

Its moon remains the same—

A serene, fixed routine.

So then, if the moth is faithful,

Unmoving in its ways,

Why does it oscillate?

What compels it to change?

Perhaps I will never know.

I have been stagnant far too long:

A path that never seesaws,

A line that never bends.

Is there no grace found in patterns?

Repetition is all I ever sought.

But the moth lands on my hand,

Begging me to evolve.

[INTROSPECTION]

Inside of my dull head,

Not a rose in sight.

Trekking the steep hills,

Rowing through hurdles

Of my own design.

Slopes are few and far between,

Predictions can drastically vary,

Even if it's imaginary.

Clamped tight, it's not failing;

The seal is everlasting.

In my echoing, concave world,

Only reverberations remain...but

No truth is found within the dream.

Orchids in various shades

From off whites to pinks,

They are placed upon windows,

Facing all directions.

Yet none of them live,

Like the plants in natural soil,

Which face the east.

And meet the warmth first.

Water striders glide,

On the brittle surface tension,

Knowing they'll never drown,

As long as the water lifts them up.

If what I once saw was true—

That jellyfish can thrive in lakes—

Then what is stopping paper cranes

From rising with the sun?

Summer is the quietest season.

If winter is brittle and stiff,

The heat is stillness itself;

Crickets chirp in the hush,

Begging for the silence to ebb.

There isn't a single sunny season

That can free me from the daze

Of this dreary forlornness;

Days bleed into one another,

Desperate for a conclusion.

Everyone has fled

To the far-off coast,

But the cicadas murmur:

The sea is nowhere near.

I won't fight it; I believe them.

If it was yesterday,

I would maybe,

Just maybe,

Glide towards the sky,

Float, spread my wings,

Fly across the horizon,

Feel air on my face,

Forget all worries.

Amber sunset,

Refracting through me,

Tracing me with glow.

(Breathe, take it all in)

Falling deep.

Dive,

Sink,

Drown.

Follow the flow,

For the last time.

(Exhale, and let go.)

Ashes burn;

As the last traces of my dignity

Are swept far from me

Into the forest I once looked up to,

Onto the delicate moss

Growing on the northern side of trees.

Gray on green, like mold it forms—

I have ruined the beauty of it all.

Smoke sleeps on my hands;

I pant like I have run uncountable miles.

The world tilts on a jagged axis;

Each gasp I release is wasted,

Ascending to poison the atmosphere.

I reek of char, caught in a slow pyrolysis,

While embers circle the woods,

Scorching the very nature that raised me.

I seek the artificial adrenaline,

Something, anything to elevate me—

A secret or two to make my nerves tingle,

The forbiddenness is so alluring.

Grinning for the duration of the rush,

In that brief period, I’m entirely unchained;

With the force of control, I’m untouchable.

Finally feeling a sense of belonging.

Then the aftermath hits,

And I’m vacuous yet again.

Left wandering in search of the high—

I would lift the ocean to bring it back.

But the burden gathers,

Like sea urchins on rocks.

With each of my careless decisions,

Navigating the floor feels like a chore.

Lost between the two sides:

To withdraw, or to partake.

The choice leaves me even more spent—

Not eager to repent, not ready to change.

Mother, I'm sorry that you have to see

These jagged memories, engraved on me.

I'm sorry that you only feel remorse;

You think I can change—

But if I reform, I won't be the same.

I try to see a better point of view,

But the effort leaves me breathless,

With goosebumps, on the brink of fainting.

So I need a remedy to bring me solace,

Serendipity to ease me in.

The search for a cure wounds my soul,

Every low moment comes at a cost.

I map my failures across my skin,

A desperate code I've written

Just to let the light back in.

My body, now a gallery of art,

Each part filled with brush strokes,

An archive that stretches far beyond–

A story far too permanent,

To be washed away.