See gold in stripes and braids, how smooth it drapes
across the edge of everything you do?
That edge, the demarcation of escapes
is mockery; you never follow through.
You only sit beneath the warmth of gold
and bite the flesh behind your stoic lips.
You never bleed; your teeth are getting old.
The pulse is fading from your fingertips.
It’s just a bed, get up — or go to sleep.
You claim your dreams are just as warm as blood.
Periphery is nothing you can keep
behind the dams of night; it marks the flood.
One slip, the edge becomes a dark abyss
of which your mind will be oblivious.