On the edge I look out
I wonder nothing, I think nothing
all that has long been done.
Like a novel yet unfinished I hang
-disordered, and shamed-
from your disinterest.
My mind is not blank
just nonexistent.
I stand and watch the cars rush by
busy with a sense of purpose to
the people inside.
One step froward
is eternally backwards
over the ledge that I look out.