where I am, the edge of oblivion
blank, empty stare
you carry it in the palm of your hand
delicate music-maker, this filler of hours
without art, I couldn't imagine living
blank, empty stare,
its simmering anger boiling at the edges
that I see on your face
I know the edge
come back to those who love you,
love
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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Sinkhole Versions
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This Poetry conjures images of a shoreline on the sea or standing amidst an endless meadow.
ReplyDeleteProfoundly.
Blessings~