The end of my rope is tattered and torn, stretched and frayed beyond repair.
It was once a vibrant coral, but now a dull and lifeless peach. Shineless.
It swung me around to new places,
Lifted me to new heights,
And twirled me to new friends.
I saw beauty in life, in love, in people from above, below, and beyond.
I witnessed creative sparks of electricity flash and burn and bind the world I'd come to love.
I sat front row, proud and humbled to see others' ropes soar to reach-less peaks.
I stayed steady, swinging my from my personal paradise,
Wishing my rope would lift, but praying it would simply hold.
The burning on my skin I tried to ignore.
The wind around me licked the flames igniting inside me.
I would not look in the mirror, knowing what I'd see.
My face ashen, tired and weak.
Heart sunken, exhausted, and meek.
Passion broken, taken, and bleak.
Embers erupted on my hands, loosening my grip.
Dare to hold on.
Dare to not fold.
My fingers weaken, the singe of the nylon burning to the bone.
I can't. I won't. I shouldn't let go.
The burn creeps through, testing, hurting, burning.
The last bit of strength seeps out, searching for cold in a world of flames.
I tumble, my rope hanging lifeless above me, out of breath and alone, wondering where I will fall.