Refraction.

Inverse.

Teetering on the edge
Of mania,
A flash flood of thoughts
Rinses the despair from this mind,
The inertia from these bones.
I rise from my grave now,
Softly as the wolves' feet pad
Across sacred ground.
I rise, I rise faster with each moment,
I am dangerously high;
No mortal feet should tread here,
The angels warn me.
My heart beats again, but my mind
Does waste -
It is the inverse of my usual misery,
And I ponder why equilibrium
Cannot be mine;
Why it is rare, why it is fleeting,
Why it always rises, like mist,
Through my fingers,
Or seeps, dripping through my hands.
The angels weep now, softly,
And I wonder why I have never wept
Softly, only sobbed
So violently
That my throat turned raw,
Gasping despite the pain.
I am on an edge; the razor's edge,
I am here
Once again.
I am here, I am there,
Still reeling from the dangers
Of wherever I was before.
I rise from my grave, and then I fall
Back down,
Deeper than ever into the ground.
The dirt seeps into these bones once again,
And I know that I shall languish here;
I shall decay here until the flood returns,
Until I rise again,
Softly - again - as the wolves' feet pad
Across sacred ground,
Knowing that I am losing control
Of how fast it is that I'll go again.