Stranded On the Precipice

death escaped
my hands

and left me

standing at the altar

the emptiness
received me
like a self-
inflicted wound

in a room
adorned with trinkets of trifle

faintly linking
my alter-ego
to this faux land

of vaulted heart
and vapid mind

where visions turn
away
afraid
to learn

of their inbound
inception

this blunderous aberration
has no station

nor foot
to find it steady

a cistern of depleted days
precedes each ghastly step
in protest

stranded
on the precipice
of a sempiternal impasse

surely they jest
upon questioning
assent to my depression

such pain belies
its own expression

and politesse yet stays
my tongue

Author: Max Meunier

Feminist. Ailurophile. Musician. Poet. Human.

5 thoughts on “Stranded On the Precipice”

  1. So dark, Max. I hope you are OK. Cistern, sempiternal, politesse, such sharply precise words. Most chilling lines: “the emptiness / received me / like a self- / inflicted wound.” On a lighter note, the guy in the picture makes me think of Wylie Coyote. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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