Border Soul Poem by Nathan Coppedge

To sink, betimes, below an archer frame- -
And here bely the hope to crave again- -

A deeper will, a calmer, quicker flame- -
Before the soul, in torpor, splits in twain.

To think the fates have spun a brighter garment,
then that of truths which bicker with content,

Near enough are we to some ill brink,
as to give substance to a physic pause
and grace our terror with a little ink.
And stare ope-mouthed at those chill jaws!