I have teetered on the chair of your
words with rope chafing its reminder
along my tightened jaw. What good is holding
balance another breath? What point is there
in all this strength? Ah, to swing free of life!
Swing high, swing low, come for to carry
me beyond the river, carry me off the edge
of tomorrow. I’ve looked over Jordan
once or twice, or is it Styx? No matter;
the other side is darker than starless night.
I’ll not find my way across like this,
poised on the unsteady fulcrum of desire
and of death. I wait, teetering,
teetering, for you to carry me home.
Stephen Brooke ©2006