Hanged Man

 
Dangling by one foot, head
inches from the ground, eyes
half-open, I wait for resolution. My ego
falters in reverse. Lessons repeated
are forgotten a moment later.

I have grown fond of the rope:
rough grasp around my ankle an
uncompromising noose. The veiled sky
is years away: its shackle a vine,
growing deep within my skin.

My only weapon
is one I cannot use,
lost in unyielding ether,
and release will come much too late,
when I no longer need it.