We’ve been standing here for a while.
We’ve been teetering on the edge.
Taunting the wind
One good gust and we’d tumble over the edge in a mess of curls and reaching hands.

How do we outsmart the storm?
Howe do we convince the gales to believe they’re just playful breezes?

There’s nothing below but angry rocks and roiling seas.
Sure pain and angry death is all that waits over the edge.

It calls to the wind,

and cajoling,
To make the final move in this long battle of wills.

The rain is coming.

Slickening fingers and piercing flesh with ice

To freeze and burn and numb

If the gusts shove too hard there will be no way to insure our grip.

Standing here,

how long do you think we’ll last?

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