The Edge

It seems to be
the edge is always
just over the horizon
glittering with warmth
and possibility
yet constantly at arms length
where arms extend
never reaching
stretching to the point of pain
with the idea that the delicate bones
nestled inside will break
The air close to the edge
think like paper walls
holding in a black and white world
gray being deviation
constant supression
shrill and cold
like the fall of winter upon the trees
knobby fingers extending out
with death's chilling touch
The end taunts the eyes
with its beautiful finality
and you dare not close them
else the dream will fade.