The Fence

The edge of the fence
is a desolate place
amongst the pain and pleasure
Sometimes we may peer out
over the edge to a neighbor
and wonder who they are
and if they have the answers
to the riddles that plague
us every night in our slumber
and those that find us
as we go about our day

But the edge is indeed
where we choose to rest
teetering on the brink
of such fiery madness
like needles diving
deep deep into our minds
solitary movements
and the shuffles of old feet
moving to the edge
closer and closer

If you remain long enough
past the hidden songs
and the hallowed sorrows
you might just find
a lonely stranger
writing his memoirs
in a battered old book
made of tattered parchment
flicking his wrists
into such elegant script

So here at the fence's edge
peering over the shoulders
of weathered stones and sticks
one may trace dust
into cracked sidewalks
as they read aloud
a story untold, unborn
of the hopeless, the hopefull
and those that have fallen
between widening gaps