Swallow

It catches.
Nearly to the exit and it catches.
A struggle over the very threshold of freedom,
the tips of sun barely dancing on the cusp,
but still, it catches.

I thought it would get easier as it drew close.
Then nearness brought resistance,
the magnetic attraction growing as the separation increased.
Giving in would be the smart move,
the simple way,
a delicate and abrupt return to home position,
but there is no fun in that,
no joy in a life absent of death throws.

So here I wait.
With all my might to stand still.
And in the waking shadows,
when I taste the greener side of this,
It catches.