Sleeping
in the lap of a *****
where wind promises
threats of silence,
kindly attracting my hair
to the steep
abyss:
A life-long longing
to fall into
a basin of nothing.

My feet blister, bragging
wounds of having walked
-liars.
they’re just grazes
from the bricks in my boots,
sculpting my body on the edge.
Without wind
I could climb bare-feet
but I’m out of breath
and the corners of my eyes
are already falling
down