The Edge of Tilt

Just as the world tilts forward,
the horizon slits open,
dusk spills like ink
across a blade of road.

Gravel hums underfoot,
a low hymn.
The wind snags on my coat,
tugging like a child
who won’t speak.

A hawk circles once,
its shadow slicing asphalt,
clean as a decision.
The air tastes of iron and rain,
a storm coiled
in the belly of the sky.

My boots scuff the earth,
each step a question
the ground won’t answer.
The road dips,
a sudden scar in the dusk,
narrowing to a whisper
of dust and bone.

I stand still,
heart knocking like an engine
ready to ignite.
No map, no stars—
just the pull of what’s next,
heavy as a held breath.

This is the moment
before the plunge,
the world leans in
and names me
with its weight.