Cusp Of A Nightmare Poem by Pamela Ascroft

Cusp of a Nightmare



On the night's dying edge I balance,
Contemplative on the thin blade of sanity.
Poe's pendulum swings ever closer,
Razor words making bloody trails on the psyche.

Precipice without fallback.
Tightrope strung high above a net that exists only in fond wishes-
Ropes of smoke, vapor of good intentions.

Disappearing. Extinguished. Extinct.
Bonds meet boundaries.
Love will not catch the fallen.
Not from this height.