by Elizabeth Southwood (c) December 1997
I listen, the antithesis,
of callous people who dismiss
a post traumatic thought, or jeer
at those who evince cowardice.
When on high cliffs way down I peer,
I'm certain I will disappear
right off the edge. I make the plea
that I can't look without great fear.
Some "Nerves of Steel" will say to me,
"Come closer, stand where you can see,"
as I hang way back, terrified,
while they peruse the view calmly.
I am afraid if I complied
my terror would be justified.
I'd slip over, be nullified.
I'm not committing suicide.