Cantilever Poem by Mark. A Heathcote
Cantilever
Your fingers are the cantilever to my soul.
If you let go, I shall doubtless fall.
There is a counterbalance between us
that isn't discernible to others,
a delicate thread on which
the world is invisibly tied.
If scissors are brought to bear,
how will I fare, sent out of orbit,
no sun in place to hold descent,
my spiral into oblivion?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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10/30/2026 11:32:16 AM # rel_20261026T125300Z_a7741e1
