Only on the edges of the edge
do you truly feel alive.
so said the brutish soul
grubbing through the mud and oil
spitting blood and drowning
low in anger flood.
sneering at the lonely stride
the boneless trudge
the spineless push
towards the vacant ledge
steps like aimless grudges bent
before a shameless judge
the honey thieves are out of breath,
and chicken sad with thoughts of death.
one push on and they’re all gone,
one turn back and everyone
survives.

It was a wise machine
that wound this ball of string
as tight as season rings
somewhere it started
and somewhere it ended
the whirl of things not right
nor wrong - just reasoning
wandering round and circling
like thrum of strands within threads
like clustered shards in filaments.
a universe of time
unquenchable, intense
untwisting, complex intent.
I understand.
We are entwined
beneath this endless, turning
firmament.