No metaphor, no meaning,
No hidden rhyme,
No reason.
I stand before a precipice,
looking down upon the world.
And the wind gently tugs
my worn and beloved plaid,
The best invitation,
a man could ever ask for.
After all, falling is merely flight,
and my soul has taken wing
so often,
I feel the desire to follow.
But death is the rooting,
of ones soul,
and mine has so far to soar,
that despite the joy,
of forty seconds of free fall
I'll remain just on the edge.
Well, minutes befriend minutes,
until they collect in great groups of sixty,
and then those gather together as well,
until night drifts upon me.
Alone, in a dark wood,
dark only in illumination,
not in emotion,
I sit content,
if only in half measure.
Happy to be free,
Saddened that I am not.
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