He stands at the edge.
Absorbed in the pounding waves.
The seething fury that snaps at the rocks,
salivating with anticipation,
calling him to its watery breast
To embrace its deep dark depths.
He stands at the edge.
A surely grey sky scowls at him.
Like a nagging parent who,
when faced with unrealised expectations,
shifts the blame on
one who dares not speak out.
He stands at the edge.
The bitter wind attacks his body.
Slaps his bare skin like the hands of a lover,
who's heart, long since turned cold,
yells at him to go, leave, get out!
Cross the line and never return.
He stands at the edge.
Seagulls laugh, taunting him.
Vicious names spear his body,
penetrate as deep as any weapon,
drawing blood of one who does not belong,
Death would be a release.
The edge is clear.
The sea writhes with pleasure,
at the taste of sweet young flesh.
The wind screams with anguish,
at the loss of one so dear.
The sky shreds a lonely tear,
having thrown away true love.
The seagulls are solemn.
Guilt has disarmed their tongues.
He looks at the edge.
Such a fine jagged line,
that separates dream from reality,
pleasure from pain.
All is silent.
He turns and walks away.
Just like all the other times.
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