The Edge

He stands upon the edge of the world
Over the lip of the fine earth, his toes are curled
He always imagined the edge would be sharp, refined
A stretching infinitude of an impenetrable line 
But the edge, it is a soft smile, warm
And the sky in front of him is yellow, like bees in swarms 
One step forward and he decides
To finally, let his own soul fly
And with each step forward, soil flutters down in clumps
Until he peers into the yellow gaping mouth below and jumps. 
-anna sluder

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