The Edge of The World; or An Honorary Title

The edge of the world
really has no edge at all.
It's just one horizon
pushing against another
in an infinite struggle
between city, country,
sky, and sea.

The edge of the world
is a salty brine.
It's a mixture
of two types of tears:
Turmoil and joy.

The edge of the world
is a real place
where night comes more gently
than where I hail from.
There is a tiny, waving flag
stuck in the notch
of an old dock post.
And floating on the water
there is a feather
that has fallen
from the sky.

The edge of the world
is ever-descending,
but with a nice enough breeze
to keep everyone happy
enough to stay out for a bit
And burn beneath its sun.

The edge of the world
began at her fingertips
and ended with a softly
spoken word.

The edge of the world
isn't all that impressive
as it is able to fit it all
into a camera lens.

The edge of the world
is the blood on a knuckle
from a mouth
that said either
too much
or
too little.

The edge of the world
is what calls you back;
even if it's the sound
of your own voice.