The edge was calling, drawing out, demanding,
and offering abyss and sorrowed falling,
into the ocean's depths, that deep embrace;
until pink petals tripped up mind's dark race.
Limp and soft and lost in coloured dreaming,
they struggled to survive in salted feelings,
reminding me that in life's fearsome hold,
there could be grace and hope as stories told.
Distracted in that moment from the visions,
which distance held in taunting, cold precision,
there was a chance to reckon and reflect,
sweet blossoms saying: No, you must go back.