Grips and Gazes

At the cusp of a wrist is a grip invisible yet lasting, Pulling toward a void quieter than thought, A world of recluse and all visionary, Can I really be the last one to come here? Or will I be the first? Do you exist merely for my sake? Against the grain lie regrets and mourners, Hats tipped at brims and shovels stuck in hillsides, With onlookers glaring some dark as setting sun, Others dusted with sleepy tears from nights calling skyward. The drive of will is enough to cause madness at the brink, A simple utterance of final respite, Enough to dream eternal slumber, Soft sweetness so very softly sweet, Lullaby audible only in echo, Harping calling crying into further into. Hats off to the days, The good and the bad of course, Now recalled with smirks and shot glasses of cheap liquor, For some another hour of staring abyss, With so many questions unanswered. It's not so understandable the way these thoughts fleet like those whispers sing, Solely in back of mind outward madness, With a final kiss for the ones I love most, And a word or two for those that care to read them aloud, And feel their weight, Beyond that it won't be much of an exit, Dire perhaps. Then as sudden as the bitter turns sweet, Like warming honey on lips once awarded, The tides of emotion will forever change, And more and more and more will be ever forgotten, Faces will fade, Moments ashen not unlike phoenix to become anew, And in the particles of their breaths, My essence floats swiftly away.