Of yet undiscovered
blackness and depth,
a chasm suggests in my dreams.
I’ve laid on my stomach, looked over the edge
and fallen headlong,
I vaguely recall.
Though here I stand, healthy and whole.
A dream then it must be.

All those days and nights spent digging for gold,
I wonder what became of the hole.
I haven’t any gold, nor broken bones,
though I see disturbing signs
that what I suppress to the back of my dreams,
or nightmares, has substance
more close than I deem.

Unfortunate, though I walk on this ridge
so lovely, full of life,
suspicion is growing,
resisting the knowing
how fragile my footing at times.
As sudden to me
as a whim or a breeze,
I could falter,
and I would be gone.

Slip off this path, blissful and growing,
fall grasping, frantic
crying
again.
Full well in the knowing
of blackness and depth,
looming so close to my dream.

How will I exist beyond,
this time?
Exuberence clinging,
laughing and singing.
No, never again
healthy and whole.