A Razors Edge

A Razors Edge

The walls we built,so tall, so stout,
our sentinels of endless fears,
bastions of lonesome doubt,
recede once more through countless years.
To peek above the torpid ground,
the rocky outcrops of fractured minds,
they do not make a single sound,
just sit there waiting with there kind.
Until some fearless soul decides,
to dig them out, from seasons past,
to find that in that hole resides,
their final resting place at last.
Will we fly into that open sky?
and shuffle off the shackles grip,
or bound below, sink down and die,
a 'razors edge' in one last slip.
A choice forestalled,
is quickened here between these walls.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010