Abstractions of a Lonely Heart

 The sound of falling:
a soft breath
like the pale lattice
of a dragonfly wing
or
a high and keening wail,
the shriek 
and scream
of a tempest
rushing past.

My voice,
my throat so harsh and thick 
from all the swallowed questions
and candied lies
I murmured to myself
in deepest night.
Like a stone afraid of falling,
like a tear that wonders why
so salty,
a pointless plethora:
my doubt.

So concerned with extra
never learning to cup
and coddle
and glow
with my own light,
always I have fallen,
and always will I fall,
never having learned to grow
from seed.

The fall is always the hardest 
to predict
when one is so busy climbing,
hands
grasping the rough
rock and scree
that crumbles from 
my 
hands,
and the sound of falling 
fills my ears,
so deaf.

The sound of falling, 
a soft breath, 
like the lattice
of a shriek, 
a scream,
so frail,
rushing past.

Reviews

[Annelise]

"The sound of falling:
a soft breath
like the pale lattice
of a dragonfly wing
or
a high and keening wail,
the shriek
and scream
of a tempest
rushing past."

That in itself could be a poem. I can feel every word of this, see it and taste it. The atmosphere you've created is stunning an d lovely. I like how you were able to say so much without giving anything away. When you can express your feeling and not have to spell it out to the audience it is a grand acheivment.