This is the hour, my dear ones

When it wishes to run, and has no ground to stand on

When its eyes widen in terror, and it still does not see

When it screams the loudest, and breathes the least

When it clutches the tightest, and weighs the most

Imaginary tether
Wishing for the lightness of a feather
As if it weren’t escorted there
By its own two feet