Edge

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by Julia-C, Mar 14, 2011.

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  1. Julia-C

    Julia-C Well-Known Member

    She is standing on the edge looking down
    at twisted flesh hanging on mangled bones.
    The concrete path’s stains are growing larger
    red puddle congeals to a sticky mess.

    People stop and stare hands over their mouths
    fingers fumble at buttons seeking help.
    Windows to their souls drip without purpose
    all of them asking the same question, “why”?

    Her feeling of detachment compels her
    to look up at the night sun in wonder.
    Feet and legs that once supported her weight
    no longer needed as she drifts away.

    Surrounded in white she hears an owlish voice
    flashes of regret and guilt seduces her.
    Vivid light starts to fade and she trembles
    surroundings become shaded fears come true.

    Terror produced tears which quickly boil
    other’s screams soon are muffled by her own.
    Flames melt skin evaporating her blood
    bones blacken crumbling into a powder.

    Reality becomes newly focused
    once again she feels weight on feet and legs.
    The light in the sky dims to soft moonlight
    she steps from the edge to face a new day.
    J.C.
     
  2. Sadeyes

    Sadeyes Staff Alumni

    I am so glad she stepped away from the edge...as usual, J, your poetry took me to where she was...and having been there myself, I understand what you have written, oh too well...you are so talented...thank you for sharing your gifts with us...J
     
  3. Julia-C

    Julia-C Well-Known Member

    Thank you for your kind comments. The edge is a very precarious place. I hate the edge.
    I wish I was talented, I'm not. I still thank you for your kindness.
     
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