The harm was not in the fall.
No, the drawl of tumbling
felt like a bow string released
and when it had ceased, humbling.

Pain was the pull from behind;
where my mind, ensnared in knots,
like a tangled quagmire drogue,
the last threads gone rogue in thought.

Though the relief was also strong,
it set wrong, muddled with guilt.
How could the cost of peace be
all of the things we had built?