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.

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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.