World Poetry Day: high nothing
high nothing awed small by mountain peaks we find ourselves, or rather we discover what is left when we take a chisel to our own façade and chip away. not the creature we carefully curate (and learn to believe in), but what is left when we are alone, standing on a shelf in the sky, touching fear with our fingertips, breathing unshared air, senses shrilling over bare, sharp rock that promises to tear brash skin: a casual tiger bothered by a moth. it is impossible to be anywhere else: there is no future, no past to dream of, or regret. just this still moment and the keen ecstasy in knowing: 'i am nothing'