The Give Away Soul

My hands are cold,
my mouth is dry,
they say 29,000 feet is a lot to climb.
my fingers groan over each push
and my feet on every ledge are murderers of white butterflies.
if this bump is dripping in white things with wings,
all letting go and releasing,
then this place is even more for me.
when I breathe the oxygen that is helping me,
the pain is of rusting away
something familiar as though it is only killing me.
am I supposed to feel on this white-butterflied hill,
that the farther I climb,
the farther I fall,
and the more air I breathe to stay alive,
the more I die?
As I cross over the line of the horizon,
and chainsaw the cuffs of boundaries,
I wonder how I toiled for this moment,
but never thought it through.
I hope that the poor sad thing will move,
at least float out of its coffin,
and soar with the arctic butterflies.
As I itch my way to the galaxy of it all,
the farthest pinpoint up,
and think not so much that I chose up,
than I did away.
I am alright with the grey,
no sunrise for me,
its appropriate since nothing good comes,
until you let it all go.
I sigh at the beauty which is more than an understatement,
I climb so far up,
but have nothing to say?
my hands are cold,
my mouth is dry,
they say 29,000 feet is a lot to climb.
the bag is warm,
my hands still cold and,
I think I'll let my hands warm up,
then I'll let it all go.
standing on the heaven of the earth,
I am urged still to go farther up,
but no chances left,
what's inside the bag is melting in my hands.
time is slow,
when I move too fast,
tearing open the bag,
to find nothing left.
my soul is gone,
my cold couldn't have melted it away,
where has it gone?,
but I stare at the clean empty floor of the bag,
did I ever have a soul at all?
I heave the empty bag,
up at heaven,
but it falls back at my feet.
I sink to my knees,
holding my soul's carcass,
crushing a mountain of white butterflies,
under me.
I am at the top of the world,
the tallest white flower on the earth,
but I still can't reach the God,
I only want to know,
the one I climbed to give my soul to,
but a thought curls inside of me:
whoever said you had to climb at all?
my hands are cold,
my mouth is dry,
they say 29,000 feet is a lot to climb.
feisty winds shred the bag in my hands,
and I lay flat on my back,
on top of the world.
one orange island above me,
eradicates the grey and,
I think of how badly I messed up,
that I thought opening a bag on top of a mountain,
meant I was giving my soul away.
the wind is in my ears,
I can't hear a thing,
but 29,000 feet up,
I feel something warm like the little orange island,
is inside of my chest,
and thinking that I even though I failed,
I'm glad I came.
and when I put my cold hands,
on the island in my chest,
they gradually become warm,
and I swear 29,000 feet up,
that Someone is calling my name.

-anna sluder




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