When does a fall break my face:
Without sleep, on a substance of alteration,
And perhaps at less than the necessary level of sustenance
Panic, silence, weeping;
Are we in this together?
Does the vagueness of my acute dread
Provide the leeway I need
To recover a sense of green hydration?
I haven't typically asked these questions
Specifically
When it's been necessary;
And as we're talking about time,
It's the sense of its narrowing to a point
That dots my eyes before the blackout
Concern is a cocoon that won't save the
Butterflies, rather its the commitment
To flying all the way across a continent
That lends a doomed life
The meaning of its beauty
Roman Ryan 