The Rotting Edge

Sleepless grey found in this hole
Finally fallen through into remembrance
Reality shakes
Pangs strike across the surface
Of (once) still, dead waters
The colours of decay
Luring life inwardly
Drowning

Turning faces glare and cringe
Alternatively
Downwardly

Thoughts of unborn brooding
Fester under the surface
Lending unfamiliar, disturbing form
And unthinkable (all-too-familiar) function

Spin, spin, spin
Pray for the bottom
And yearn for the edge