Unknown
The thin white line of sanity stretches
Between empty horizon and smoky sky,
Where mind bereft struggles for breath, choking,
The drawstring tightening, pulling the dark -
The soundless, hollow dark - from netherworld
Of demons and terror-filled dreams,
From the sour odor of angst and sweat.
Thoughts, disassembled, scurry out of reach to
Where hangs the heavy pendulum of fate.
And far beyond, where mountains hide
Their secrets in clouds and the rivers run cold,
Tumbling toward their unknown destination,
Is the fabled golden apple of desire,
And the edge of immortality is cut by
That thin white line
That keeps us precariously just this side.
Copyright © Barbara Peckham | Year Posted 2021
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