Future Faked

A poem on what I thought was magic.

you held me.
high up above the forest canopy, 
and to a standard I did not ask for. 
It was beautiful
and holy
magical.
(but it never was.)

My raw palms.
They grasp the trunk once more
my tired muscles propel me 
up, up, up.
And I climb. 
And I hold
onto
the overhang as the branch 
twists my route this way and that.
And I hold on, fiercer than the way
you held me.

For too long, and just long enough.

So I hold on, 
tightly,
as my eyes break through the canopy top
above the lies, and
the promises that never were.

I see clearly, for just long enough.
To hold
myself higher
and it's beautiful
and holy
and magical.