The sky pulls on you.
It pulls on you mercilessly.
So you remove your anchor and strap your chains to it.
You set it on the floor and brace yourself,
And the sky pulls.
Slow and unwavering.
and always on time.
It's dispassion and unconcern
as reliable as
The sky pulls.
And it never lets up.
It's pulled for years, lightly tugging on your ribs,
heating up your limbs and forcing them to sleep with
spicy, warm pin pricks
-until the final day-
when your bare feet give way and separate from the sand.
And at last, when your anchor crumbles and burns to powder,
and the coins in your pocket become nothing more than music,
rattling and jingling as you rise,
you will gaze down with love, sadness, and surrender
to the people below,
all strapped to their anchors and holding steady,
fearful and reaching.