The struggle is only half the fall from the edge.
Perplexities are disciplined by the questions of everyday situations,
But you dictate the lust, the intellectual competence and the happiness:
All excreted from the fruit of life.
It's a whimsical dance kept to a rhythm of creative absurdity,
Blissfully expounding on the calming breeze.

The pleasing uncertainty invites the ember to burn
Until the brazen flames scorch the fear in a call to courage;
Our own normative theory.
The space is gone, pressed against the wall, steps would only plummet.
Faced on the edge, rubble chirping down the cliff,
Realization of the other half churns your thoughts upwards,
Tying together tightly in a choke.
It finally makes sense; already accomplished the top.
Handle half, climb higher and then.....
Jump again

I trudged threw the snow, carefully lifting my foot as to not let it enter my boots. As I walked, my boots made a loud crunch in the snow with a patterned noise like a soldier marching in a line. In my head that’s just what it became. A vast snowline with its depth of birches, white soccer poles and net’s leaning into the snow as if being consumed. There were two school buildings, one left of center of my position and the other far right. Spray paint dripped from the walls, twisted in greens and blacks, zigzagging across the building forming letters and gang symbols. That’s why I flocked to the woods, away from the calamity.
Serenity formed a giant circle lined with trees making great sweeping walls, closed off from the field only opening into a small brook. There is a church on the right and the only thing visible. The snow is untouched making a marble flooring across the wood. By the creek there is a bench with a thin layer of snow across it, untouched by the gently flowing river. It is a peaceful place, plenty of space to think and an uncanny ability to generate noises not normally heard. I sat listening, pondering, while filling that serenity with an array of smoke.

I want to plant foothills by the stairs. Broad basins on the chipping white paint. Flaking from the ceiling in droplets. Watering the drought of steps of vacated conversation, inner tongues flicking pleasured thoughts. Touches sprawled on black sand paper are compressed by our synced footsteps. Intertwined by laced fingers and hungry thrusts. Backpedaling to the peak, it causes cautious urches. The snowy ridges still chipping off, lips sealed together puzzled by whom will break first. Or if the sprouting seed inside is blooming in the other……….I still can’t figure out when you walk down the steps.