beauty in the breakdown

grey bone moves, lunging forward and backwards,

knowing to move to escape mistakes

she's afraid of them 

so close and dangerous to hold.

The frail aspects of feeling leave numb

the branches grown over the years,

a slow process, often wilting and loosing colour

as broken, dead parts of what I once was, fresh months ago. Few float down as a

single white feather would in the sunny skies, as warmth guides.

Mine fall, the are crisp, fragile

ready to be crushed by the fast forwarded people stuttering heads

in front, moving in the rush.

Slow it down, every year my leaves fall off, already broken, though they're always regained.