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“The Edge by Stewart Stafford Hanging on the jagged edge, Taunted to plunge in the deep, Surfing wild on stormy winds, Cold sweat at pain's brief sweep. Nestled in some whirling gusts, Gooseflesh skin from chilly hands, A mask for a mimicry ball, An everyman's muddled land. Rising from some inner call, Not a fugazi in Kismet's window. The path still fogged from sight, I climb higher, to touch the rainbow. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.” — Stewart Stafford
The Edge by Stewart Stafford
Hanging on the jagged edge,
Taunted to plunge in the deep,
Surfing wild on stormy winds,
Cold sweat at pain's brief sweep.
Nestled in some whirling gusts,
Gooseflesh skin from chilly hands,
A mask for a mimicry ball,
An everyman's muddled land.
Rising from some inner call,
Not a fugazi in Kismet's window.
The path still fogged from sight,
I climb higher, to touch the rainbow.
© Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.