We all have those that ground us.
Make us tangible.
There to remind that the blood that sometimes.
Spills.
Is infinitely finite.
And when they fall away.
Leaving you.
Floating.
Anchorless.
Inches from the ground.
But having neglected certain skills for so long.
Finding meaning to make landfall.
Is not a destination at all.
Nor searching for things that fiegn permanence.
The air has become frigid over the years.
One must adjust.
Or lose more than imagination.
Ever dared.