The river is deep.
The river is wide.
I burned every bridge.
I’m stuck on this side.
I stand on the shore.
I’m looking across
At all that I’ve left
And all those I lost.
The river’s too fast
To wade or to swim.
And night’s coming on,
The light’s getting dim.
Cannot find a boat
To row or to sail.
I’m stuck where I am,
A self-imposed jail.
I’ve lost track of time…
How long I’ve been here.
Has it been but days
Or how many years?
Each moment’s the same,
On endless repeat.
I cannot move on.
I cannot retreat.
The river cares not,
Just endlessly flows.
Its start and its end?
Well, nobody knows.
So, here I just sit,
Impatiently wait,
And wish I had known
But, now it’s too late.
All because of that single decision
To grasp that grate and breathe in the ethereal skies above
Rather than
To let go of that grate and suffocate in the foul sewage below
Because of what he chose
This is what he is
Independent
Not
Incarcerated
Whole
Not
Wounded
Confident
Not
Confused
Slipping off of the rusted edge, on which side will he land?
Brilliant
Not
Bleak
Courageous
Not
Cowardly
Relieved
Not
Remorseful
This is what he is
Because of what he chose
To grasp that grate and breathe in the ethereal skies above
Rather than
To let go of that grate and suffocate in the foul sewage below
All because of that single decision
Now, what if he wasn’t resolved in his decision?
Simply read the poem in reverse.
On the edge of a world unfolding like a softly whispered dream,
half inside, half outside, its center remains unshaken.
This is the woman who knows the depths of her being,
emerging from within like a flame that knows no cold.
She carries her soul like a sacred, untouched temple,
protecting her essence from shadows trying to dance around her.
She finds her strength within, like a root piercing the earth,
she knows she will triumph, that in life's battle she will always have the drive.
When she looks at the sea with its waves in crescendo,
she knows she can face the storm, turning her face towards the sun,
seeking happiness in the rising light, in the life that surrounds her.
She distances herself from the darkness, from sunsets that bring only coolness.
She wishes to bathe only in pure light,
keeping shadows and demons at bay.
She guards her essence, keeping her peace like armor,
fleeing from all that is evil, in search of the celestial smile.
Half inside, half outside, but always centered,
she knows the truth about herself, her path unaltered.
Consciousness, a fragile spark—
Flickers bright—then fades to dark.
The mind, a house of airy rooms,
Echoes silent in its tombs.
No longer does the heart attend
The thoughts that flutter—break, then bend.
The pulse, the nerve, the waking eye,
All bow before the final sigh.
No ghost of thought—no lingering dream,
No whisper floats upon the stream.
The brain, the throne, dissolves to dust,
And all the self returns to rust.
Yet in the hush—perhaps—remains
The fleeting warmth of earthly chains.
A life well-loved—a fleeting sun—
Extinguished—yet it was begun.
The end is quiet—nothing more,
A closed and softly shut sealed door.
What's true for you
even if it is insanity
may not be the same for me
as we each have our own reality
'There's two sides to every coin'
some are said to say
'But what about the edge,
when one is on display,
showing tails and the obverse?'
as a numismatist I insist
even a mirror reflects the reverse
yet when confronted with a conundrum
maybe at least you and me
will resolve the knotty quandary
with compromise and both agree to disagree
her thoughts are mighty and marvelously influential to me.
I call her Trixie, my muse, she is truly the ultimate queen bee.
She won’t leave me alone, she’s like a dog with a hankering for duck.
How do you write so often? Other writers ask. Is it some kind of luck?
It is my muse, she is persnickety, tenacious and she must have her way.
She forces ten poems out of me every single solitary ordinary day.
If I want to sleep, she laughs me awake with a lovely ending line.
We don’t need any more rest she tells me, we will do just fine.
Her insistence and persistence keep me at the edge of my seat.
She wants a pen in my hand so often, I hardly have time to eat.
Trixie is my nemesis, but also my savior, she keeps me wild and free.
You see writing down my feelings is brilliantly therapeutic for me.
We talk like always—deep and wide,
Of everything, and what's inside.
You know my soul, I know your face,
Every silence, every grace.
But there’s a line we never cross,
Drawn soft in sand, but heavy with loss.
A whisper hung between each laugh,
A truth we only feel by half.
I see it in the way you pause,
In hands that shake without a cause.
The way you look, then look away—
Afraid of what your eyes might say.
We could be more, we both have known,
In every moment we’re alone.
But love is fire, and fire can burn—
So we choose not to let it turn.
Because what we have is rare and true,
A bond that time can’t undo.
And if we reach, and it falls through—
Would I still have all of you?
So we don’t gamble, don’t confess.
We bury want beneath a "yes."
We hold this gift and let it be,
Though part of you still reaches me.
Maybe someday, when stars align,
When fear no longer draws the line—
We’ll speak the words we’ve always known,
And love will find its way back home.
But not today. Not just yet.
We’re not a risk we can forget.
So we stay here, on the edge of flame—
Two hearts too scared to name the same.
Scott W
On the far edge of the world there are
fanatics of many minds and religions.
They have uninteresting histories,
jejune existences, and distorted ideas of nature.
Some are belligerent, felony-friendly foreigners.
I’ve never given them a single thought,
because they are nothing to me.
They’re insignificant—living curiosities
and I grant them no more sympathy
than I would a flock of wild birds.
Of course, I’d never wish to harm wild birds
unless they had the wherewithal to attack me,
in inimitable, Hitchcock style.
.
.
Songs for this:
Kashmir by by Toni Jevicky
Bring Me to Silence (Audiotree Live) by Fievel Is Glauque
.
.
felony-friendly = terrorist or crime adjacent
When I was 16 my face suddenly froze,
As I passed out in my friend's arms,
I was laying there, face turned rose.
I awakened, memoryless, then recall harms.
When I was 23 I was very far,
But I wasn't alone as I kept on twitching,
She saved me while my spirit was afar;
Soon I flew back to my body, waking.
When I was 27 I almost died thrice,
Two times because of someone I trusted,
First time because of foolishness for a vice,
Three times my head internally combusted.
When I was 8 months old,
I had my first encounter with death.
I flash backed to it, as a 27 year old,
Like as if I was holding my last breath.
When I was four, I hadn't thought life a bore,
As I was free to play, until one very day,
I learned someday we all go out that door,
One by one, "It was fun," I know I'll say.
When I was 6, I was reminded of this crucifix:
As I was trying to sleep, I began to seize,
It was how I became self-aware I need a fix,
How taking a pill daily makes life a breeze.
When I was 8, I learned how to better create
A world of my own, safe in my chamber,
Until once again I fell into a seizure of hate,
I awoken to family holding me ever closer.
When I was 10, I was free of the disease,
No longer needed the pill for prevention.
I was bewildered by which brought me ease,
As I let run wild my suppressed imagination.
The Lake.....
lies… still,
a glistening sheet of tin foil,
shimmering in a cold-eyed wind.
At night
the lake still... lies… still;
a coffin with lid screwed light-tight.
On occasion, the moon trickles light,
lightly across the lake's pitch-black back;
the knack of making the coffin lid crack!
Today, I challenge myself
to touch-dive the lake’s chilling depths,
halfway down I halt, a dark vault,
weakens my errant confidence.
Despite puppet legs and handcuffed arms
I spin frantically to reach a detached surface,
bursting out like some skittish, Scottish salmon
only to be held between the two supremos;
illuminated sky and darksome water.
Tonight, the lake grips my bedroom window
and I watch as watery, inky tentacles
claw and talon at an unsettled shoreline.
Later, I wait for sleep to possess me,
sensing surrounding hills clinging closely
while rain falls like pellets of iron.
So I drift…listening to the lake
whispering dangerous, whispering treacherous secrets
until nature’s seesaw; night tilts into daylight.
Ian Souter
In silence lies a hidden blade,
A subtle force, in shadows laid.
While others shout, their voices loud,
The quiet stands unbowed.
Rejection’s sting, a bitter art,
Yet fuels the fire within the heart.
Each “no” a step on paths unknown,
A test of will, a strength full-grown.
Watchful eyes with steady gaze,
Unspoken truths through crowded haze.
While noise consumes the restless sea,
The silent see what others flee.
Not always near, not everywhere,
Selective steps make moments rare.
Like treasures found in hidden folds,
Their presence gleams in whispered holds.
With quiet strength they claim the floor,
No need to shout, no need for more.
Their confidence, a steady stream,
A force unseen, a lasting dream.
And pain, though sharp, becomes their guide,
Through shadowed nights and tears uncried.
Each scar a mark, each wound a key,
To rise beyond, to simply be.
Unpredictable as rain’s soft flow,
A shifting tide that none can know.
Each move a question, each word a spark,
A glowing flame within the dark.
The world may favor voices loud,
But silence holds a strength unbowed.
A power hidden, yet reclaimed,
A force unnamed, but deeply claimed.
Discipline
is not the gash,
it's the flame
you agree
to reside beside.
It requires the band
to be held taut tight,
in an unrelenting
challenge of will.
It is not the strength
of demands
that keeps it switched on,
but resilience in wake
of striving.
Having compassion
for slips of self
is not surrender
nor judgmental.
It's the little gives
that firms the grip
to tug in light
of flame.
I saw him in the corridor —
my mind stopped for a moment,
all my emotions rushing back,
stunned, yet I kept walking.
Once I was away,
I crossed a wall —
and broke down,
tears flowing down my cheeks,
words unsaid I couldn’t hold.
I wanted to stay,
to hold on to him,
but I needed to go —
to let go for my peace.
I saw his photo,
blurred by falling drops,
memories flashing like lightning,
wishing I could just drop dead.
If only this pain would stop —
I can’t hold on anymore,
I’m standing on the cliff’s edge,
hesitating to take that final step.
The heaviness in my heart,
the lump inside my throat,
a clash of hope and surrender —
begging my mind to accept the fate,
to face the harsh reality:
it’s time to let go.
when love was scarce and bitter-spun,
i craved the warmth of anyone.
no silver spoons, no golden light —
just hungry hands that learned to fight.
i licked the steel of sharpened lies,
and swallowed tears in my disguise.
the blades that cut, the wounds they made —
became the price my heart had paid.
yet still, i sought what stars conceal —
a fragile hope that dared to heal.
through shadows deep and echoed cries,
i found the truth in shattered skies.
love is not kind to those who crawl,
it tempts, it breaks, it takes it all.
but in the dark, i found my name —
and rose unburned from blackened flame.
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