Edge of Ending

Barely holding on now,

So close now to the door,

Thoughts spinning windingly,

Freer than before.

---

It doesn’t have to make sense.

Life isn’t grammatically correct.

Imperfect but determined,

A matter of matter of fact.

---

These lines are not straight.

These thoughts are not so narrow.

These lights are not guiding.

These bones have not but marrow.

---

But if tips of fingers, of nails,

Of claws, of paws, of fins,

Still touch the disc above the Turtle,

I may make the sense that wins.

---