The ropes fray in lazy twists

The ropes fray in lazy twists,

a faded cradle caught between two battered beams.

I lie back, the world soft and slow,

half-sleep’s gentle tug pulling me down.

The sway is uneven, the knots creak sharp,

somewhere between awake and forgetting.

The summer heat breathes through torn fabric,

a slow pulse I want to hold on to.

Dust motes drift like lazy thoughts,

and I count the sighs the hammock makes,

the quiet moments caught in threadbare loops,

a fragile peace balanced on fraying rope.

The day bends here, time folding slow,

and I’m caught in the space between breath and sleep,

swinging quiet, almost still.