This Cliff (or final days)
Resting on this cliff
wondering if . . .
I feel I cannot go back into my life
I feel that it would be a lie
I sit and fear
The rocks below me whisper in my ear
The wind that pretends a gentle caress
And seduces me into something less
Than living, and laughing, and being
But can I ever trust the world I'm seeing?
The hands that reach to push away
The strands of hair that linger in my face
The words that whisper to my soul
And promise that the rocks below can make me whole . . .
I stand and feel the knife rip through my heart
Because I cannot jump and tear myself apart
From the life that squeezes shut my throat
I cannot release myself upon the grave below . . .
But I also cannot return to live
Within the world that will not give
Inside the days that will not see my truth
And sadly now I know, neither will you
And so I stand and whisper breath
Into the air that seeks to bring me death
Locked within a space I cannot dare to leave
I may as well have died for all that's left of me
But I will rest in quiet resignation
Knowing deep inside, my final destination
Is not withheld, just merely now delayed
And so I sit, upon my cliff, in these my final days.