A CLIFF HAS BUT ONE FACE

A thinking man on the edge of his bed,
where his contemplation dangles
with jaded toes – where a raw mind
begins to grow along the precipice,
and blooms there an original and
unforeseen hue, designed solely
to breathe the invisible, though,
necessary air.

When I leave you, this is where
you’ll know it, hanging in your mouth
like the taste of iron in your blood.

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