Bordered at the Brink


The brink stands before me,

Relentless and foreboding, smacking of all the decisions I never made. Of all the choices I never reached of all the apathy I incurred.

The brink stands before me,

A jagged reminder of the lives that could have been: the destinies and of the destinations and of the desires and the discarded.

The brink stands before me,

All the faces and all the places and all the won races and all the traces of hope and value and accomplishment and triumph.

The brink stands before me,

A villainous blight on all my peers and acquaintances, of turned cheeks and of turned backs. To be shunned or worst yet acknowledged with pity.

The brink looms before me,

I made and bade this foul beast of shapeless forms and yet of unyielding recognition. Did I choose it or did it choose me the question asks.

The brink towers over me,

Fixation fascination frustration agitation aggression resignation retaliation broken.

The brinks swallows me,

What have I done?

Why did I choose this?

It did not choose me.

I chose it.

The brink stands behind me,

It wavers and wails, claws and cries, stamps and stares. Beyond it lies the road that must be taken; a one-way trail with no return.

The brink is no longer my interest,

This road leads to uncertainty. Mastery or misery, joy or jaded, fame or fatality, success or salvation, entrance or end.

I care not, so long as the brink is behind and the road beyond.



February 2, 2017 // 10:46pm


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