Have your ever stood on the edge
And wondered?
What does the Black feel like?
Is it that soft brush against your skin?
Which raises the hackles?
Or would it cling like tar
Hot and sticky
Seeping into your pores and
Down to your very soul
Solidly encasing it in stone.
What does it taste like?
Does it brush against your lips
A whisper, a kiss?
Or does it flow down your throat
Choking, clogging, no air.
And what smell would it have?
Would it be a gentle reminder
Of a distant memory, buried deep
Or would it slam into your senses
Like a wind carrying the scent
Of Long Forgotten memories
That wound the heart.
If I took that step, from the edge
Would the Black softly receive me
Or burn forever, relentlessly?
Would it gently beckon me or
Would it reach out its long bony fingers and
Seize me
With no choice?
Have you ever wondered?

I'm constantly at war with myself,
and it's always a matter of life and death.