Inching Ever Closer

I’m on the edge
of the edge
and it takes but a whisper
to push me off
I’m inching ever closer
and I don’t fear falling
as much as I’m afraid
that turning, backing away
will be all but, possibly hard
the void calls, as the french say
and I’ve half a mind
to answer

So as I stain my sheets
with blood, sweat and tears
like flowers, dotting a field in spring
I cannot help but feel
Like helplessness
would sure fit me
much better than this
antipathy
t’wards all
that should be regret
instead I keep hoping
that when whisper comes
it is not to push
but cradle

To change the sheets
to clear away dust
and make my covers clean
To let them creak
their leatherbound song
and turn another leaf
be it a “last chapter”
or a new page
I’ll read it
either way
I’ll do so loud
I’ll do so proud!
I’ll read it, I know, I will.

Or rather I would...
but the “should be regrets”
remain where they stay
and I’m inching
ever closer
Nothing’s really wrong
but there’s a murmur
on the winds
hissing, whistling
I can’t make it out
but it’s inching
never
closure