Pulse

It starts with a
Pulse.
An EKG on a bedside
Table,
Beats dripping down its
molded drawers, it catches
your breath before it escapes
you. Chases
your racing heart
before it can cross
some kind of finish line.
What is an end? But a
ribbon waiting to be broken through,
slashed through like the
blades that seek it, the deranged that
crave it. The bloodthirsty waiting
for the cut. We take flight with
the beating wings that
propel us, with the hope that the
pulse
is enough
to carry us across the sky.