The Last Line

I stand at the edge of a drop-off;

the roots of trees gnarled out into

the dead zone where a fog hangs--

it is empty and cold out there.

Do I fall?

A tingling in my chest screams--

the man is afraid of falling.

The demon, clawing to touch

the rolling misty nothing;

he wants the story to end.

Author's Note

S.W.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Fear, the downfall of us dear Anna. He or she, who wait. May find nothing. I liked this poem. A open story that leave something for the reader to ponder. Outstanding poetry shared dear poet.
Coyote

[Delmar Cooper]

Feels like the interior monologue of the suicide. That person poised upon the precipice du jour, the cliff, the bottle, the needle, the gun, and fearing the fall, and relishing it in the same thought.