Soil, Spindle, Soul

It gets the best of me sometimes
The yearning for more, but also for less
Is it possible to love life, but to also crave death?
I am sickly twisted in-between
The dangers of living and the black sleep
I dance with skates on thin, grey ice
Exercising my rights to give, or to give up
The lacey veil layering over thoughts of threading it all together
Have I done it?
Lived half dying, or letting go – breath by breath
Every molecule of oxygen I breathe
Does it come, just leave my lungs; bitter sweet
To gasp for another throat full of air
For me to pronounce words, but pretend they were never there – Disappearing into the atmosphere
Leaving my soul – the truth sinks in
Will I ever entirely escape the need to stand on top of churning waters?
Or the dream that I will soar with feathered wings?
If part of me is intertwined with the brinks of life and death
How will I ever experience the full capacity to know the distinction of not wondering or, holding guilt?
So, I must conclude
The connection of the spindle and the thread, as well as the soil
Sewing a bag to carry dirt was a misfortunate thing for me to do
I got nothing from the years of lifting it off the ground for you
But, the yearning for more – it never stops
The separation
The ashes that are the bridging you from earth to somewhere else
This is where the living- life and dying-death do meet
The deer trail between you and me
Hidden, near Bear Creek somewhere
You lived.
I reap.