​There are perforations
throughout my spirit.
My soul crying out for solace,
if you listen you can hear it.
Emptiness is in the hollows
nothing there but the wind.
All I see is wasted landscape
when I look within.
Gazing up the escarpment
at the craggy rim,
taking note of how far I’ve fallen
from the heights where I have been.
But those cracks you hear about,
well, I slipped between.
Now I keep trying to fill them up
with all things serene.
So when next my soul stumbles,
when the next darkness falls,
Maybe the landing will be softer,
or maybe I’ll fly after all.
M. Zane McClellan
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