Black granite crags,
jutting proud,
Stretching across the wind-racked moors,
On the backbone of broken dreams.
Dark-stern and forbidding.
The edge lies there,
Like the black dog of depression.
The endless wind whistles and shrieks,
Ancient ghosts who sense the residues of pain,
They are the destroyers of hope,
And slay the tooth of tomorrow’s broken dreams
amid the ashes of yesterday’s grief.
To stand on the edge,
Is to look down into the abyss of eternity,
Or look, look upwards into the blue void of nothingness.
