In my worries I am plummeting down steps,
industrial, medieval, breezy welcome

stairs like little landings where a foot could catch.

But ones that I barely hold on to
because each moment would feel too heavy, instead
mechanical, turbulent, winding respite

feet like metal teeth moved by each landing.

The motions dissipate my anxiety and I become
a gear that merely traces its teeth into the edges it catches
despite moving down, I’m suspended
tireless, forgotten, white noise

unlike a cog
I am running out of stairs for my feet.