Let it Go

My ribcage is merely

a pair of hands

holding it all in;

a protection of the heart

And the time has come

to pry those bony fingers loose

Let my heart

drift into the ethos

to free its restricted beat

and controlled perimeters

Yet I am terrified

My grip is detrimentally tight

It would take a crowbar and a boning knife

to release those paranoid claws

Scalpel, please.

Sure Footing

Too cautious,

I only step

where there is sure footing

which must be why

I can’t dance

like those bold souls

who flail about

without care

(and usually some grace).

A degree of calculation,

is my step

before any step,

tossing chance to the wind

and to the wolves,

and certainty,

my hovering angel.

But I

would rather be

paralyzed in fear

than misstep.

Stagnation

a better outcome

than risk.