Reaching For Freedom

Agh, I'm slipping!
Help!
I call.

The pinnacle on which I balance
is pointed, hard and very slim.
My skin is eggshell,
weak and thin.
I'm frightened, lonely,
soft within.

I panic;
reach for distant dreams.
My dreams of freedom
mist, it seems.

My faith, my goodness,
stabbed to dust.
My steely stars
now bands of rust.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.