Roy K. Austin

The truth is like a dream
where nothing has a name,
as all our tomorrows
are that which never came;
she punished as the sun
who sought her on the earth -
through myths of Acheron,
the mystic’s desert dearth.
In vultures on thermals
I seem to read her mind -
she travels with spirit
but leaves the flesh behind
and hides between heart-beats
that drum her narrow ledge,
a bottomless chasm
that hugs the razor’s edge.