The Chasm
Finite Distance.
That is what lies between us and the edge.
Our sanity.
Our reasoning.
Our being.
Startling Suspicion.
That is our warning that we’ve begun our descent.
Our paranoia.
Our weakening.
Our inner clock, stopping.
Euphoric Light, is fading
That is a sign, our distance has increased. Or is it fleeting?
Our hope. Our demise.
Our love. Our fear.
Then it’s like a bullet.
Weakness and Darkness.
We’ve fallen off the edge.
We’ve made it to the end.
Is it rightful? Or is it,
Wrong?
Something wrong with this poem?
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ScarletBalance
Fighting for permanence, Striving to be Infinite in Distance and Unbound by Death
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