Edge of the World
Prose & Muse in Transit
I am sitting on the edge of the world and it moves toward its end as I feel it in slow motion.
The colors are blurred, a shine breaks into a million glass pieces, drawing blood from the skin of anyone who cannot run.
I wonder what will the mosaic look like on the other side.
Who will stop the bleeding? The tourniquet isn’t enough as red gushes into our seas, reducing us to rubble and bone.
I fly away again, this time on less than perhaps ever before. I am in the fire, and under pressure to over come and perhaps I am failing as I am flailing for a soft landing.
There is a longing of my soul, will the love I carry go with me or will it be reduced to grief in the rubble of a reality I do not want, not yet.
I’ve lived something of a rolling stone life and there are days I am heavy with exhaustion and fraught with a resentment I cannot yet transform into rage. It is in those moments I want to hide away leave the world behind. Oh I’ve tried, only to be confronted with myself.
At least rage is a form of movement, because I cannot keep it in, I can only let it out and call for what ultimately —is mercy,
Mercy, merci
I am at yours and you are at mine,
As we spin at the speed of light around the brightest star in the sky, sizzling under the extreme heat and anger of Mama Earth for our sins,
Fracking addicted sucking up ancient ruins from the ground
And so we dance under the moon light covered in salt blissed out kisses
Just to feel alive,
Ah, heaven have Mercy,
There is life in me yet to raise my voice above the crowd for the justice…
Free. Free. Falasteen. And ‘She’ is freeing me to scream above the noise, raising bones from the dead in the desert, dance, one step down. Ah, yes, there it is clap again.
Let bitterness resign to my coffee flavored tongue, savored at the edge of my lips on the edge of the world, a woman worn and ready for another chapter to begin where rest and resistance are intertwined. Where there is pleasure in simplicities and I can hold my own, and perhaps, the world too when she cries.
MercÃ, mercy me, What’s goin’ on here? I am falling forward and longing backward.
As the world shatters to its end as we know it and who I am is dust after the fire, sprinkled among the salty seas washing away the blood stains of violence,
Washing me up on a shoreline under the galaxy of reflected lights. Glass molded mosaic of many colors, reflections of ancient wisdom and weeping.
Here I am send me, at the edge of the fire, burning us into the end of the world.
Ash is a writer, poet and artist with a strange war journalist backstory, making sense of time and space, shaping the language and stories we feel in our bones. Connect with her on Substack or at ashgallagher.com