Withing Ourselves

Heads down, walking, and so sad
uncertainty seems to be the norm
everyone afraid to speak, or hear
smiles are a commodity, and rare

I see a world that’s tired and scared
from living on the edge for too long
the ledge is too close not to see it
so we step gently on broken glass

Step back; the edge was always there
but we were never pushed so close
If those behind can just turn around
the rest of us could maybe breathe

Stoic Poetry


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