The Mad Edge

The thread thin and goldsilver
weaving before me a
precarious path of balance and edge
the thin line I hold fast to
when the plate tilts and would
tip me off - I hold its cutting
wire, endure the slit
outwait the ticking darkness
hoping to sleep and wake
into a bright day with the real
room around me and the
voices quietened down, a beam of
goldsun striking skin to
arrest the fall and reel me
back in - upright and walking
in a world I see and recognise
The Teetering Woman
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