the audacity to live stung deep, to the circulatory atriums,
woke a sleeping dryad, cocooned in the soul.
breath breathed breath and rose to starry firmaments,
loosing all sense of solid ground.
precipitancy, then, sharp and well marked, made a rent
into the dryad, draining fast her breath.
disconsolate-eyed, heavy head, she lifts her fragile arms,
tear-stained acclimation aches for recrudescence.
the absence of time spent tucked in pockets
fills the space where the breaths belong,
a strange beat pounds out a constant rhythm
only felt, not stirring the tympanic membrane.
she marches on, tiny dryad, on a languorous quest
searching for the oracle to break her chains of
perturbation and perplexity -- asking constant cunnundrums:
how can she live without breathing?
for in that breath she was found cognizant.
--Me
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