It turns out, - like hands, like pages turning, -
That I am more petrified of everything
Than you could ever comprehend.
I suppose it's the waves crashing in my lungs,
Or baron wasteland kissing the tip of my nose,
Even more, it could be the death touch
Whispering its mermaid lures to me inside my heart.
Expectedly it could be the curse of gangrene winding it's way around my toes
As a result of standing stagnant in this town for far too many milliseconds.
But the crippling hunch is I have many places to be, a heart to give,
Myself to mend, myself to mend,
Shard by thumb pricking shard
I am rebuilding who I breathe to be
And with a time span the size of a spec of dust
On the geological time scale.