To weave,

Isolation.

Weaving in and out of the legs of my elders,
I cling tight to the skirts of those before me
and grasp for the ankles of who I know is steady in these rapids.

When looking to should become looking ahead,
I am held fast in this equilibrium.
This dreamlike aquatic plain keeps me centered but removed,
to live as an awkward observer.

Awaiting my release,
I am growing impatient
and flailing is finding myself caught up in my own waves.
I am not making any forward progress,
so, instead, I am fighting for involvement;
to be part of that cycle once more.
But, held in this concrete are my feet anchored deep.

I do not like the view from this window,
the only view that I perceive.
There is no land to jump to below even if I wanted.
As I have been left here for years to ponder,
my brain has grown fat with philosophies,
and remains restricted to this cage
to only further my predicament.