landing

The sky is falling. Little white bits of it pefectly constructed, delicate, glass-like. Intersections pass in rotating clouds of red, yellow, green. The colors are beautiful, but cannot dictate nature's stopping and going. The sky is falling down, down, down to hide the ground.

* * * * *

Leaving is easy. I do it often, now. It is landing into the lap of reality that takes its toll.

* * * * *

Flakes drift from clouds en masse, unconscious of the end. They pile as they had in the sky, and perhaps never know the difference. They are themselves; individual, together, wherever.

* * * * *

I spend more time asking who I am, than being myself. It's hard - too hard. I am me whether on a high, in a slow-floating plummet, or here - so close to the ground.