there i was just standing
on solid ground, minding my own,
drinking some courage
from a cup.
you couldn’t just leave enough
alone,
you swooped down
and plucked me like flower.
now here i am another level up,
learning how to walk again,
air is mighty thin, less solid
than quicksand.
i must tell you that i love
and hate
this blessed curse
that’s always blooming.
the flower never seems to reach
full bloom, just grows incessantly,
enough to make me strut
for a week or two.
another level up has no meaning,
only irony,
when there’s nobody
there to prove it’s real.
