Tipped off the edge, finally toppling into the
becoming of a new edge while falling, thinking
how that new edge might seem when time begins again,
how it'll feel, how it'll creep up on me when I think
there's none when I believe there's no edge
at all...how will I suit my comings and goings then,
how will I rationalize hawking the faux notion of
no edge when everywhere I look, when everywhere I
think to look, when everywhere I am is the indistinguishable,
unmistakable rendering of the new edge coming? Such a silly thought
when nothing is but falling.
Perhaps it was a selfish move. Perhaps denying food for the
odd man or woman seeking a diet of a different sort is kind of cruel. So it
goes. The decision was culled from debate's crucible. I cannot take the time or
spiritual effort to fit myself to a suit of behavior that obviates what's most
important to me. It won't happen, though it presses me to understand the
responsibility to myself, as a present communicator to the world, though few of
the world may ever benefit. It's those few that determine the worthiness or
extent of a word's power.
So quick you are to feed the beast you've captured by your
clever devices built in utter secrecy for the sake of swift surprise attacks on
toughened enemies situated helter-skelter in the carbuncular face of society.
By even cleverer disguises, they make their way into the collective heart of
us, insinuating by single presentations, cleaving the tough sinews molded by
intelligent doubt over ages of learning, all undone by the dark magic willed by
the mind looking over us all, deciding by the toughest unlove who lives, who
dies, who gets the prize, who chooses the correct game door.