The Outskirts of Danger
Near but not there and looking up,
in the trough and sinking lower,
mountainous waves leering up ahead,
liquid beasts with white fangs
closing in to devour his prey,
and send me down into the
black abyss, to Davy Jones’s locker.
All systems in the waking moment,
the veins swelling up
to let the hot blood run amuck,
the adrenaline shouting to open the gates,
the sleeping lambs brandishing
their bloody battle axes and
the arsenals begin to empty.
The closer to danger,
the louder the adrenal
voices at the gate become.
The closer to death, the
weaker the fighting spirit becomes.
The touching of the hands
of the Grim Reaper,
the bigger the opening
in the heart to let God in becomes.
“To death and beyond, my new home.”
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