Coffined into Life

Suspended from the sky by an absent rope of fate,
your unsure soles—grip lost on the precarious cliff-top—
chilled by the strange feeling of like nothing under them,
flicking themselves against the weathered flint floor
whose loose, scraggy chips leap like broken petals into the endless abyss,
you remain swinging there—a balance beam—between two worlds

The push of just an eagle feather or down
or a cranky freakish breeze to break the inertia,
a quirky hammer stroke to hit the nail home. Unhomely

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