CHAPTER 4
wisely learned from possibility

I’ve got rope where my arms should be -
nylon and kinked, coiled and vined.
It’s reaching for things that ought to be mine.

I’ve got rope where my heart should be -
twisted and twined, braided and frayed;
strands withered away with
each beat that is made.

I’ve got rope where my spine should be,
pathetically frail fibers of wool —
but, when lassoed and strung, can take down a bull

I’ve got rope where my mind should be -
spiraled and plated, silken and loose.
It’s confused me in love — to push or to pull.

I’ve got rope that is binding me —
knotted and course, restraining my stride.
But it doesn’t really matter
with nowhere to hide...
and I’ve really got nowhere to go
before the day I die.

All I’ve got is this rope,
tied in a knot.
Through problems I’ve learned
to never be taut.

All I’ve got is this rope.
to hold or to break;
enough for the freedom,
enough for mistakes.

Enough when I’m on them
in the hopeless times.
Enough to be hung
or to heavenly climb.
Enough to be whipped
’til I’m blackened and blue.
All I’ve got is this rope to hold onto...

And I’m truly losing sleep over all it can do.