The Brink

Barely beating for long;
Lengthy year in the blue.
Colours crept through the cracks,
Shingles clinged to the roof.

Nearly gone, but she's here;
The brink close to the edge.
She inhales from her lungs;
Climbing mountains instead.

Every minute ticked by;
Now she ticks what she does.
Tumbling high over hurdles,
Letting go of what was.

Living life she still has,
As she tears up the will.
Watching valleys below;
Running up for the hills.

Published by notapeepbutlotsofpaper

A silent voice with lots to say. I speak with pens to stay away.

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