Upon the Edge

Upon the edge

of a night I

whisper, to a

page that is silent,

but for its own

silent shuffle,

crunch crunch,

rumble rumble,

the dust mites hear.

I'd hear it if

I quit the page,

scrunched and

bunched and punched

the page, filled

utmostly with

the type of sanity

I'd never have

suspected. Infected

projected and dissected

lyrics from a mind

that scrunched from

a page. Rhymes

from a coward,

whose tools had

been made eons ago,

by sunny sullen

madmen, archaic assassins

sent to kill any thought

they hated, but they didn't

realize then, they had

also made.