I stood at the edge, where the line was drawn.
And I listened to what lay beyond the shroud.
The whispers, the hushed ghosts against the dawn
Yelling, screaming—a whole crowd.

Yet, I stood there yearning, pining, and waiting.
Until the line dividing the worlds blurred.
Like rays of haze parting
And horror of the mist slurred.

Now I stand still, on the precipice completely foregone,
Mystified, mortified, but a macabre shadow of myself.
Do I dare take the step and walk the world beyond,
To find whatever there is at the end?
The Shaper,
The Unmaker,
Or, just another line waiting to blur?

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