A Low Line

A poem of when I get sick..

Fingers place themselves upon my face,

and I lie breathing.

A flex of chill moves and swims.

Move, move, move and resound

Through my afterthought.



Like a swimmer,

I paddle though a sea

Of discontent and refuge.

Beyond my voice

Comes a single thought.



Shudder outward and begin to force

One soul survivor.

Keep essence within my fingertips

And place myself beyond it all.

I survive; I breathe, and become one.

A new day dawns, and there is peace.



Move, move, move, and resound.

Do not go gently but move in quiet space and time.

Beyond all this exists truth

and we are one.