THE ROPE

What I hold on to

that keeps me climbing,

prevents me from falling,

and leaves me dangling

somewhere in between.

Taught attention.

A false sense of

discipline.

The grip I bring

to anything

I grasp at.

The braid and strand.

 The binding 

that tethers will

to way—

twists obstinance 
into being.

Cordage
made of fear.

The hauling and the lifting.
The busywork
that distracts and ensnares,
and, for the life of me, 
I can't let go of.