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Push down to go up.
Force presses the floor
in equal, opposite desire.
You lift as though
a thread of gold
light travels your spine,
sacrum to crown,
a celestial shaft
you ride through,
waking to rise again,
return to that ethereal
balancing point,
that rarified air
between gravity and bliss.
The bones of a day
pause over
your lyrical arches,
your critical, heroic toes.