The edge

 
 
In some boiling pot somewhere lies
Some bubbling guts and bursting eyes.
Remnants of some life spent
In malcontent.

I defy you to tell me
I’m destined to be down there.

I stand in some smooth green perfection,
Some field so green
And smooth
And punctuated by trees

And birdsong so sweet.
Yet there. Just over there.
Is that thin, dark line of cutting precision
That divides me from there.

So close. Where’s my way?
I tell you that line is a small thing.

It just needs acknowledging.
And you can stay green and free
And dance the wind with me
By seeing how close the edge is.
 
 

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