For my father

Falling,
falling,
falling.

We fall into place, fall into line,
fall asleep, fall apart. And sometimes,
we just fall.

Nightmares have always been a part of my life,
like migraines or heartache or any other life-defining trait
that nobody else can see. The self,
alone,
falling.

We lift our spirits, lift our gaze,
lift our burdens, and set them down again.
We create the lives we want, and wonder whether
these are the lives we want, and wonder when
we will fall.

Vertigo too, invisible, inevitable. Always
falling. I seek the edge, prove the nightmares
wrong, prove the vertigo
wrong, prove the edge
wrong.

Offset words and offset lines,
parallels upon parallels.
Words line up,
and scream,
and fall silent.
The book unread, the story untold.

The story untold is not truth.
Neither is the story fully told.
Truth falls between the extremes,
slipping into consciousness
and into nightmares
and still we are falling.
The truth is falling.
The sky is falling.
The world is falling.