creative writing

Edge

Edge

There is a precipice at the edge of sanity.
Cold, hard and sharp
it stretches out a panoramic view,
a brilliant abyss.
Dragons dance and demons whisper
sweet and warm,
secrets of
damning
delight.
Strings, then threads are cut
with a witless edge.
Weaving time without a hem.
The silence calls, beckons,
invites the comfort of
oblivion.
So simple to take the step —
a leap of bounds,
letting
go.

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