My dreams are
filled with holes
and unidentified
flying objects.
My thoughts are
skittish as moths
in a light show,
flirting with graceful
death
by free fall
but with a smidgen
of intent thrown in.
My hopes stagger,
bludgeoned,
by a boisterous fool
in a mirrored room
where blood collects
in prismed corners.
My debts to the living
are nearly paid.
I’m almost up to date
but badly dated.
I live inside my head
in an age before disco
when a hand held out
was for pulling up
not pushing down.
I don’t know how
to navigate
this newest now.
Yet here I am.
I’m hoarding
my last breath –
the only collateral
I can trust.
Fearless # 66
January 2019