I am on a high wall.
One warm wind is blowing me west,
and one cold wind blowing me east.
Both are blowing me down, down, down.
I am in dissonance, distress.
I am in suspense.
The warm wind is strong and familiar,
but the cold wind keeps me
barely on the precipice.
I need to fall one way or the other.
I want to fall west,
but I must find a way
to cut through the cold wind.
It was always there,
but never this strong.
"What more is there than faith?"
I scream it into the winds.
"Nothing," they whisper back.
I knew the answer.
It's not what I wanted.
So here I stand.
Here I stay.
In suspense on this high wall.
YOU ARE READING
Compass
PoesiaAn ongoing collection of poetry describing the source or maybe development of my worries, joys, and/or morality
