The Cusp

A mossy tangle, ferns nest in the oaks,

mist slithers, twisting through the grove;

at dusk I swear I witnessed lights

taunting on the edge of vision.

Why come here? It’s the cusp

of mystery, questions my world,

uncertainty’s a tightrope

we few would walk for fear:

The quicksand of the mundane

puckers for a leech’s kiss…

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