Poetry

You miss the words and numbers. 
The gameplan gets ascention. The 
podium was high. 
And so was your head. 
 
Swallowed by the winds 
unable to reach the end of journey. 
Were you not thinking? 
Was it a treason to withdraw – 
 
from the frills? In love scare 
there were other things to do, 
in the storm, 
like collecting the thorns. 
 
You step outside the dark and 
feel the limbs of light, 
altering the script to become 
a miracle.