The Brink
At the brink
men gather a calm.
Such placid faces in the
black boot dark
Peer the sheer drop, like family,
blind and familiar.
Each man to feel the treachery,
the boundless adulation.
As if to say, “ this is it,
all there is"
The slow waltz, time with its
terrible hand,
mark the breath and snuff
the mind .
When essence defeat
gives up to ghosts.
And Morpheus summoned
to steerage command.
Sometimes at the brink
the world is finally true
with its pursed lip to swallow
the best of intentions .
