Fingers gripping the very edge.
Knowing the great abyss is below.
Feet slipping and sliding on the ledge.
It would be so easy just to let go.
I can't fall off, no matter what.
Sweat runs down my frightened face.
This is not my story but a fiendish plot.
Taking the easy way means I'll go without trace.
I am a poet, a writer with more to write.
Who will know me when I'm gone?
Life is so short and has been a fight.
And yet I must write on and on.
Writing is in my heart, blood and brain.
It illuminates me, helps me make sense of the world.
Poetry still keeps my mind sane.
Shines my light as into the next chapter I am swirled.