CATHARSIS
Drift of dreams—
through the long hush of days,
it drizzles—
in drops too small to name,
from which the pulse of will
might… live.
Is breath a weight?
Time spilling, leaving less and less—
What then?
How will I answer… myself?
A fragment of strength
still… remains.
Where pain waits,
as another chance unfolds—
I know.
What shape will I give myself?
Perhaps the opposite holds
… and the fall.
Author: Veron
