An arm, broken off, drifts downstream,
a tree branch the river took as its own,
a severed promise held once by a trunk.
I watch it disappear, beyond the horizon,
knowing my hand, brittle and frozen,
cannot reach. I cannot hold the fire
or smother the flames, cannot cradle the world
as it crumbles to embers at my feet.
The sky splits open. A jagged mouth laughing.
It speaks of a language older than the wind,
and I, a silenced child, remain tongue-tied,
hollowed by the vastness of the words.
Spirit fractured, a kite forever untethered,
I dance in the drafts with no line to draw me in,
no hand to clutch the spool, no eye to gauge the storm.
Where is the knowing, the pulse of certainty,
the craft of action that stitches light
into the fabric of the night?
I have no map to navigate the shadows,
no compass pointing home. Only bare feet
kicking dust along the trail's dissolving seam,
and four empty sleeves swaying by my sides.
I am a scarecrow stitched from dreams
that wither, arms stuffed with straw, dangling
beneath a sun too bright to touch.
The world is burning, and my gaze is static,
rooted in this field of quiet defeat,
witnessing the blaze as it claims
the husks of my empty, waiting hands.
Still, I wonder, if I could grow another arm—
one made of hope, or one made of seed,
could I find the soil, could I draw it near,
reach not to quell the fire
but to nurture the life left behind?
Could I, a single piece among this tangled earth,
grow strong enough to change the marrow of my reach?
