Poetry Collection.

Sestina III-Unfinished.

————————

Tell me. It means little
else here, to pretend, to live
thinking it's worth it. There's an edge—
the point of no return, the beckoning of which I cannot grasp,
the turning of something dark and dense. I know,
I know, and that is what I fear.

You are something strange, to fear
what you seek. Stranger, still, to feel so little,
and to yet think so big. I know
the terror, the quiet living,
your desperation to grasp
onto any fleeting edge.

Stand by, on that edge,
and dangle halfway. I fear
not the height, but the fall. The slipping of a feeble grasp
and the quantized descent. Scaled too little,
scared to live,
scatter until it doesn't know.

So tell me, if you know.
If loneliness warps around the edge
and back again, or if it lives
in a burrow, in a hollow point. Tell me if you fear
it. Tell me if it makes you feel little
or if it is hope to grasp.

So if you do, don't let go. Grasp
it stronger than gravity, feel it more than you can know it.

————————

(February 12th, 2024.)

I recently rediscovered this one in my notes, but forgot what story I was going for. Even so, shall I try to finish it, or shall I let it rest?