A Poet’s Qualm

The open air around

Makes a whooshing sound

I see my life play out before me

Before I hit the ground.

Crashing. Crashing. Crashing.

If only it were a dream

Then it all might seem

A little better—I suppose

To be crashing to the street.

Crashing. Crashing. Crashing.

Am I rushing towards the Earth?

Is it rushing up to me?

It looked so far away

From the window.

Crashing. Crashing. Cra—.

…