My many years on stony roads
have led me to the crashing edge.
A chilling calm infects my nerves
and curious, peering o’er the ledge:
From view above, a sleepy sea
but down, the waving white-caps peak
the pulsing gangrene from my youth.
My legs beneath me buckle, weak.
My many years have led me here,
confronted by the murking deep,
and whether not my terror wanes,
like all before me I must leap.
The goading wind behind my back
compels me take my mortal dive
and hope across the stygian plain
my soul will somewhere safe arrive.
My many years have reached their end.
With graying hair and see-through skin
I face the precipice of death,
whose ocean hands will take me in.
I dive, and break the sickly spume,
the water warm like mother’s womb,
and swimming through the cloudy bloom
I take my rest and greet my tomb.
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