Cart and Rope

Photo Credit: imarobottttt at

I always put the cart before the horse, as they say, or perhaps take a leap and realize I never hung the rope. It’s in my blood–irrationality, chaos, running. My parents ran–away from others, away from each other, away from us. We’ve all just been running through fire for so long that each step is like a million and the stars have suddenly blinked out. The lights, as dim as they were, reminded me of you and that just leads to running. And I always fall. Up stairs mostly, but I plummet until the backdrop seems black again and the pieces collide in silver sparks of possibility and snuff out into the same. Same faces, same ideas, and I’m a blank stage where they play out their dailies on my face, and I shine until I’m see through, until I disappear into the salt, and I’m there instead, all wrapped up in warm-air embraces, safe in the cart with the horse ahead, clutching the rope for safety before I jump, before the fear kicks in again.




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