On the bright Saturday

Mornings in the middle

Of a dew-filled summer,

I hang on the precipice

Of a quarry, toes

On the cusp of a cliff

Diving straight into

Crystal waters.

When you hold yourself

On the edge of the world,

Your mind makes the fall

Before you do. There’s

An urge to follow it, to jump.

Falling feels like flying

Until the moment that

You land. Soaring through

The wind, you have true wings

For the fleetest of moments,

Long enough to grow wistful

Of Icarus, despite his fate.

For there is nothing as

Pure or authentic as feeling

Avid freedom carry you

Through the air.