The Black Hole

I teeter on the edge, stumble
as the wind from the black
hole below sucks at my feet,
the vortex spinning
as if it had hands to grab my
ankles and pull me in.

On a good day, I move away
from the black blade - move
down the steps that bring
me here, to flat ground
where I draw lines and designs
in the dust
like hopscotch
to keep my eyes and mind
and feet busy
away from the sirens.  On dry
land I lash myself to the
mast and hold on.

The bucking ground always
tries to throw me off
like a cantankerous horse.
I feel the fall in all my
bones, spine jarring, ankles
smashed on rocks.

Always it calls, the spinning
circles up over the bladed
lip into the void.  I hang
on to the dust under my
hands, fill my fingernails
with grit.  Dawn comes

early here with rosy fingers
and my hands are numb
with scrabbling - as if I
could hold on
when the time ends.

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