Dancing on the edge of death,  
where the air tastes like fire,  
and shadows stretch long against the fading light.  

Each step defies the weight of gravity,  
a rebellion against silence.  
The wind murmurs secrets,  
but I refuse to listen,  
too lost in the spinning, the leaping,  
the delicate balance between falling and flight.  

Flames brush close,  
a fleeting warmth,  
but never a burn.  
Ice kisses the edge of my fingertips,  
a promise of stillness,  
yet I twirl past it,  
a refusal to be caught.  

Time splinters into fragments,  
moments scattering like glass on the floor.  
Each shard catches the light—  
brief, radiant,  
a fleeting glimpse of eternity.  

There is no partner here,  
only the rhythm of my own heartbeat,  
steady, resolute,  
guiding my motion through the abyss.  

I dance where the line blurs,  
where every ending hides a beginning.  
The edge is narrow,  
sharp,  
but it holds me still.  

Breathing in the infinite,  
I step forward again,  
dancing not for fear,  
but for the freedom found  
in each defiant motion.