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
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

pink red buds blossom on a single branch with blue sky and limbs in the background. Text: Poetry centers the heart. by Kathryn LeRoy

. . .

And always—

Be kind. Be brave. Be you.

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Photo: On the Edge  © Kathryn LeRoy