A certain romance

there is a certain kind of romance
loitering just under the surface
in places where you look in wonder
a kind of edge play
on the death of self
not in the sartre’an little death
we can all do with more of that
but of death by their own hand
as art
as a pose
as theatre
for those who have felt the black claw
fought back against its grasp
know the life force & of its edge
of vast glittering black obsidian
hard
unyielding
to brush against it is to feel
its singular unvarying nature
to push past is for no return
there is no humour here
no bargain
thus far & no further
beyond is unknown
& will end to what is here

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