It's Still Life

Fallen

He’s unbalanced by gravity,
plummets like currency.
Tumbles on the trail and
then disappears from view.

There’s a bolt of noise through his head,

and he looks around –
a slow forest of ebony,
trees of speech, lanky,
a green canopy of limbs.

The ground is thick, muddy, and bitter,

and his eyes are still filled
with sparks and shock.
He moans like a wounded beast,
the birds and trees listen,

as his leg burns and flutters.
He feels white marble of bone.

This is what happens when you
dance singlehanded with yourself.
He scolds his feet.
He scolds gravity,

and he assumes he tripped over an ant.

AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney