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The Threshold
Hello, lovelies. Here's a poem for you. The format got the shaft, but, oh well, I suppose.

The Threshold

If I thought I could
get away with it,
I'd gut the man on
Smithfield who said
Hey, smile. It ain't so bad, sweetie.

I'd reach into the wound,
with clinical precision,
until I found his optimism,
hard like a seashell and
just as fragile.

I'd wrap my fingers
around it, clutching with
the desperation of 1,000
cross roads or lost souls

because if I can hold it
I can have it and
I might not give it back.

I might not shove it back in and sew him up tight.

Lythe Aeon
Community Member
Lythe Aeon
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