What am I holding on to?
A Promise?
Promises are water, bringing and sustaining life to all with access.
Once bound, however, they slip through the holder’s fingers,
Only worth holding if kept.
And often, they are not.
So then, without that trust, what?
What has me so desperately enthralled that I remain attached?
Is it home?
Home, where you exist and no one thinks twice
Where you can simply be lost in comfort and warmth?
Home, with its sweet air and tiny petaled flowers…
Maybe it’s this
No, home is secrets; home is lies that feed on me.
So then…imagination? Or belief?
Perhaps those are similar, or one in the same
Even so, it has dulled to an almost indistinguishable light.
A light often confused with desperation, with longing
With sadness and with sorrow and with loss and with
Hope. This is it, I think.
What a dangerous thing to trust.