Edge

I wake and sleep
on the honed edge of a paradox.
Young enough to feel invulnerable
old enough to know better.

Shrouded

My Past envelops me,
a gossamer shroud of metaphysical vapor
I can neither descry nor entirely perceive,
save for a chill at its whispering touch.

At rare moments in time
the shroud slips away,
and I draw a single glassy breath,
inhaling a tempest of clarity.

Like a nightmare scream
that drags me from deep slumber,
the tumult rages in my soul
long after the shroud descends,
a heavy curtain, to darken the world again.

My pace through this life does not slacken,
though the compass needle wavers,
each movement comes at higher cost,
and each step is more difficult than the last.

The shroud can not mask
the inevitability of defeat.