To still be...

Finger's bobbing and weaving
in and out of the spine,
Worms swerving and curving
in and out the rotted pine.

Now dreaming and teaming
with hurting laughter,
Depths of the thought bearer
in and out of out dreams,
Childhood lies
floating down the streams.

Panic mentions...
soft intentions...
dwelling in the herd,
that slow dying bird
fading to static gray...
letting the bones,
smack...
rattle...
to the earth.

Feathers dropping
like dust.

To still be...
tumbling and twirling
in flight.

To still be...
blinded and fallen
to plight.