the jungle makes no pretty scene, no postcard.
it pulses and thrashes, rehashing well worn woes
and knots new neuroses in it’s destructive dance
paying me no heed in its persistent twists.
I breathe and sweat and stretch
trying to stay on solid ground.
again and again
I am tossed
like a doll
into the tangle of thoughts
where my ankle twists in a vine
and another day is stolen from me.
no clearing comes.
except when there is the sea.
and when the arms with the school yard scar
and don’t let go.