A nubile nothingness laps at my shores.
The writer exposes himself past the limits of logic
onto the slippery footing and experiences of perception.
Perhaps something between the words is responsible.
Happiness is not in words but their echo.
Voice is a wise and pervasive calling.
Voices is the treatment once you have lost your footing
on the edge of the cliff.
A wizened tree clings to the rock's edge.
All good things, health, momentum, and busyness,
lead to illusion. Another word, subjective,
I push off the edge of my stopping place making a loud splash
in the lake that may be at the bottom of my soul.