Teetering near midlife’s edge
Tipping irrevocably into insanity’s abyss
She reaches out in frail attempts
To grasp whatever twig might save her,
But to her horror she realizes, too late,
That the twig is not rooted in solid earth
but the sandy slippage of pseudo-friendships
Tilled with manure from ravenous youths
who, unknowingly, take and take and take
without a thought about it
And leave her empty, unable to lift the weight
Of her own heart out from the cavernous canyon
Of Dante’s spiraling pathways or the certain
plummet to Hell.

What was she thinking when she jumped?
Was she thinking?
Or, was it feeling that let her down,
down into that inescapable well
of self-delusion about piteous, odious
forbidden love?

What do you think Paolo and Francesca?
Were you, too, left hanging?


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