Stopping at
the ledge,
I lean over to see
a life left behind
of you
a future ahead of me
and, it isn’t pretty
not a single thing;
standing out against
a backdrop
of teardrops,
raining down
pelting skin;
Fingers curling tightly,
insurance of
my own grip
chambered,
by my own hand
precisely,
for such a trip
see my footing slip;
crumbling
boulders,
beneath my feet;
have I actually
fallen ever so,
blindly,
into the lap
of my enemy?
Loaded gun,
pressed against
a temple,
shots commence –
my heart,
so begrudging –
my eyes,
so disbelieving;
of the stories
that the truth
is telling me;
Leaving trails of
blood-soaked
breadcrumbs
in a soggy line;
it goes behind,
a familiar time
of martyrdom
that unfailingly,
and unsparingly
will stake claim to
whatever life’s
left of mine.
