Day 17: Panic

Panic walks through the dust

barefoot in white linen,

pulling you behind it on

a dirty sheet. The sheet

winds around your ankle

rattling its silent tail.

Panic hauls hard as gravity

upon the rope

that anchors you

to both the ground and sky.

It pulls

as though you are a bell

booming from a tower made of

toothpicks.

Inside the bell is

a smaller bell,

and a smaller,

until finally a chime

with one tube missing,

which barely rings

don’t give up.

if you give up today yesterday won’t count

and you were never

real

don't give up.

And sometimes you hear it

And sometimes you don’t.