Palindrome

Dry.

I am a cracked painting, brushed with grief.

Between my eyes there's a frown.

My retinas feel ready to crack open.

What have I done?

What have I seen?

There's nowhere left to lean

And no strength left to run.

At the edge of the crevasse, I tossed every rope in.

And with no direction left but down,

To fall would be relief.

Cry.