I feel
like I
stand upon
the brink
of disaster or salvation.
The razor
blade edge,
paper thin
and unforgiving,
cuts me.
My feet
drip red
life into
the abyss
beneath me.
A crowd
gathers below.
As piranhas
drawn to
a feast,
they jeer and sympathize;
I hear
both love and hate.
The chants
to leap
in faith
equal those
that demand
a fall.
I wish
for neither,
and yet,
do not
wish to
remain here.
My soles,
they sting.
My soul
has torn.
I walk
the tightrope,
slicing fresh
skin with
each further
step down
razor wire.
Blood dribbles
into greedy
open mouths;
they taste
my pain, my perseverance,
endlessly insatiable
mosquitos one
and all.
But still
I inch
my way
to safety.
The conflicting
chants reach
my ears
and threaten
to make
me mad or resolute.
They don't
fully realize
I will
neither leap nor fall.