Living on the Edge
Tumbling head first
off the jagged rocks
into an unknown
abyss feet flailing,
arms reaching
empty-handed into the air.
I do not like the edge.
Heart beats fast as
sweat finds a home
between skin and sheets.
In the darkness, I ponder
the consistent
recurring dream
a helpless inability
to control falling or
landing even footed
onto solid ground.
I do not like the edge.
Yet I am drawn into the
precarious with curiosity
peering into the undefined
wishing for courage
dangling a toe
over the precipice.
Is it lack of conviction,
hesitation, or a pragmatic
choice to survive?
I do not like the edge.
The dream repeats,
confused I sit wide-eyed
expectant,
daring myself
to relinquish fear.
Living life
without regrets
requires an abandon
to free fall,
fully aware
without reserve.
I am living on the edge.
. . .
Poetry, above all, is a series of intense moments—
its power is not in narrative.
I’m not dealing with facts,
I’m dealing with emotion.
—Carol Ann Duffy
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