There is a point of which your mind has become so fixed, so stagnant, it is calm and flat like the surface of a still pond.
It had sat and brewed and fermented for so long, the despair and fear pooling underneath,
You can feel yourself weighed down by the stillness, chained to the bottom of a never moving pool.
But stillness is neither the right or wrong word.
You are indeed,
Still,
However the world is starting to rush forward like a car with no one in the driver seat and a brick on the gas pedal.
It is a water fall,
Calm but chaotic right before the drop,
The drop where you realize you don't want to fall,
You made a mistake, oh no, go back,
But climbing upstream is the last thing you can do,
All left for you now is to survive the fall,
The stillness before the drop,
That calm stagnant place before you realize the entire time,
You've just been rushing towards a spectacular end,
That was all a sweet dream that should have not been taken for granted.
If you survive this fall,
Than the moments before the next one should not be wasted again.
YOU ARE READING
Moving the Mountains
PoetryPoetry used to bring down countries and inspire artists and break and win over hearts. This poetry is meant for the same fate, if only one truly decides to read it.
