what other sort is there where a human can speak?
nigh dead, but not, else we couldn't bespeak
we tempt our souls nigh, but not closer than that brink
convinced that oblivion will yield what choices will not
some kind of repose o'er what all our rivalrous desires have bought
we tire & bore of all the seeking & searching of aimless sights sought
we throw in the towel & sail our bloody, white flags
wrist-cutter scars & purply, noose-neck toe tags
once we've looked over that swift, precipice fall
it's a drug-like high that then summons a precipitous, beckoning call
we, with our hearts so beaten & battered imagine these shorn wings a little less small
we, the cavalier cowards that fear sunsets & stars lest the beauty of life tempt or enthrall
in the rain we feel safe, like nothing can lure deeper feeling than a beckoning fall
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