The Edge, And After Poem by Lewis Dever

I stood upon the precipice of night,
Where shadows whispered promises of flight,
A silent void, a siren's mournful plea,
And yet, the stars—so far—still called to me.

The weight of pain, a stone upon my chest,
Each breath a labor, no moment of rest.
I sought escape in the abyss's song,
Believing I had been here far too long.

But in the dark, a thread of dawn broke through,
A fragile golden strand, a softer hue.
It whispered, "Hold, " though faint and barely heard,
Its tender voice a half-forgotten word.

I fell, not to the void, but to the earth,
And found in its embrace a quiet rebirth.
The ground beneath me firm, its pulse alive,
A rhythm murmuring, "You can survive."

The morning came, though heavy was its gaze,
Its light intrusive, piercing through the haze.
Yet in its warmth, I felt a subtle shift,
A tiny spark, a barely noticed gift.

Now days unfold like chapters yet unpenned,
A story rewriting its bitter end.
The scars remain, but they are maps, not shame,
Tracing the path of how I overcame.

Each step I take is shaky, but it's mine,
A fragile dance upon a thin white line.
Yet somewhere in the distance, I can see
A life that waits—still tender, yet free.

So here I stand, no longer seeking flight,
But learning to endure both day and night.
For in the act of staying, I've begun
To find the beauty in the rising sun.