The Edge, my old friend

I step from the edge

Maybe it left me behind

Impulses were heartbeats

Chances flapped like wings

Ashes of Icarus, my memories

Bruises, postcards from edge

Fathers chargin, wore as crown

Now the soul tires at the view

Thoughts make fences before me

Fear, my perfect stranger sits beside

His sister worry reaches for me

Her warm hug masks cold touch

My younger shadow warns me

My hearing has diminished somehow

Maybe I never had it at all

My eyes still long for a view

My heart wishes for random beat

The edge still calls out to me

It takes even longer to go back

The flights of fancy just mental

Deep inside, my old friend knows

We are not what we used to be

To each other, at least.

Maybe, maybe not

Maybe, maybe not

My thoughts squirm

Magic 8 ball like

Highly possible dances

Future unclear pirouettes

Driverless path lies ahead

Curves careen like sleds

Slippery slope races by

Every grip is a lie

Smiling sending control

The stop authors the story

I’ll cling to the same thought

Maybe, maybe not

Time

What doesn’t stay

Sand falls less quickly

Hourglasses choke today

What I lost

Buried deep in past

Things devolved in value

My mind describes

Shadows in solid touches

Still thinking it matters

Time doesn’t know

Nor care about me

Dust in the wind

Sunday Whirl – Modern Problems

The stick sings as it slashes through the air. The promising cut flies passing the machine that strands all that data in digital netherland. I stare yearning for light in the darkness. My mind’s journey talks to me pitching ways to get even with technology.