Tuesday, February 17, 2009

the brink


This is where we should fall

On high ground bristling with grass

And other things – beating

Wings in the dark

Too much to hold – and too little to not

There’s a soft glitter here

Whispering. Crashing.

Splintered wood and stone

Rippled in dense memories.

Craving and breaking and reaching.

Like us. Bound to the dust.

Bound to nothing. And everything.

Swirling together and lifting in the gale.

Where the thunderstorm rises dark and wild and free

Over the horizon

Something threatens. To begin.

Or to end.

This is where we should fall.