Precipice

A rotting wooden bridge
of unsaid words
overhangs a dimming sunset
between two worlds.

A mesmerizing alphabetic light,
washed in fragments
of both souls.

One holds a knife.
One holds a flame.

The truth is lost
in the wind,
but the handles,
remain.

Some enjoy the icy nights of the desert,
some enjoy the left over skulls,
some enjoy games,
but truthfully,
they're becoming
old.

So one will whisper a word,
await for something familiar,
otherwise it's probably time
to let go.