Chris Bickel
Frayed Rope
I’m watching you type rote words
for a rule you had no part in creating
words that will land nowhere
forever tired
forever exhausted.
I’m watching your vision wear down
ever so slowly waiting to be set free
and gaze upon landscapes so grand
tears would flow
like a waterfall from your eyes.
I’m watching your fingers and hands
strike a board for hours and hours
while I know they long to hold
wildflowers being born
and soil, freshly moved by worms.
Hands, that for some reason
want to rest on rope.
Rope, I laugh…
What kind of rope?
The kind of rope
that can both dock and set free
boats of imagination
into the world.
The kind of rope you now hold
watching it fray.
Watching it unravel.
Worn by the salt of the sea
I’m watching you
and waiting for your fall.
And since you won’t let go
the rope will.