Splinters Mid Flight

 

I step out

onto

the ledge.

 

My toes curl

to

grip the

wood

better and I

feel the

roughness

softly bite

into my skin.

 

The wind

caresses my

        face,

and the great height

of the beam

    brings me great

        delight.

 

I teeter along

the sun-warmed

wood,

    happily

        tipping this way

and that

        loving

the feeling of

               

almost

                       

falling

 

down.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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