On the Edge

The only thing that can kill me is myself.

Catastrophes would hurt - tear up my skin, wear down my bones, blow smoke and fog my skull, the model form of sudden bursts, a defaced, corrupt hurt, the one concealed in letters with blots of black. Nonetheless, broken, worn, grey and faded, I would settle, even, sure, one foot stubborn on the edge.

Wonder: won't I leave? Won't I - lone, forgotten - fold? Bow before the fall, done in grace and peace?

The soft allure of death has danced above me everlong. It does not wane. It blossoms among drought. The broken roof, the concrete floor. Woman, horse, dog - whatever shadow you conjure, watchful, slack mouth, hungry eyes.

It dances, it crawls, an aura of pearls. It chases me in the pace of who's won. Even so, I do the rounds, run the course, pretend fate is unknowing - sweat tears, brown veins, running to keep the world afar.

I am the abandoned house by the edge, with the ocean roaring beneath. I am perpetual.

And the breeze could blow for years on end; though my outer self would fade, each thought would be conserved. The sun could turn off, for I'd settle in the dark; the forest could fall, and I'd hold my breath; creatures could come, and creatures could go - my eyes would close so I'd forget the change. The ocean, forever beneath me, made of roars and bellows, could swallow the house, take the roof, pound through the walls, crack the floor and salt the earth. Once the waves of grace and splendor poured back below, they'd show the bones of the house, set in stone, forevermore.

To external forces, the house holds out. Death looks on slack mouthed.

To the ghosts under the floorboards, the house shakes.

For they're phantoms of slow methods and subtle doom. Unwashed, unwanted, concocted and forgotten. Glanced over. Repressed. Small monsters of stunted growth stored in the back room, where they unfolded into cruel beasts. Now, they wander down the halls, pester the wood, erode the cement with low murmurs. Slow, sure, the ghosts take over the house.

When the house falls, it shall be a peaceful night of cold and fog.

Not a sound shall be heard.

One by one, the stones fall. The house crumbles. Collapses. And the moon watches, but it is not the moon's work - nor of the ocean, nor the breeze, nor the creatures who come and go. The house crumbles for the ghosts who there belong.

Once a corpse, long dead, the house falls to the dark water below. Swallowed by the ocean at last.

That is how the house shall go.