The myth of being light

is that it requires no might.

You’re delicate by nature,

blind to the horrors that seize our sight.

You’re gentle like the waft

of a midsummer breeze,

and your soft, open heart

beats only with ease.

Dancing is your way

of setting yourself free,

and restless sleep, for you,

could never, ever be.

What if I told you

that this was all an act,

and few pieces of my heart

sit still and intact?

Fear, I fear, haunts me,

bolts I must unscrew,

and treading by water

is the most that I can do.

I have seen the end

and, foreboded, I must live.

These things make a smile,

and being light is just a myth.