Restless in Valhalla

Crumbling rock
is easy on the eyes,
the same way moss calls me
to rest my limbs

My spirit is restless;
there’s no Valhalla
I’ve yet touched
I imagine it’s a cozy grey

Rest is a trial
but I’m a success
in that I can breathe
over and over again

They want to discard me
because fixing is too hard
and there’s relative ease
in anonymous landfills

I soar when no one’s looking
but I try to kiss
every cracked rock
and mossy patch I see


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