The Edge Cuts Over Poem by James McLain

Is it over me,
you lay,
to overcome such death.

As years walked past us all,
white carnations,
tasted lips.

Symposiums illustrate each
crowned achievement,
none have cared too save
the best.

Bare off,
any here I ask,
misgivings,
stoic silence as I did.

Scroll down near,
each list those leather sheets,
the ink now barley dry.

My feet are white and,
brittle are,
each nail that hangs,
is long.

While over head,
your looking up,
shadows cast,
each moon shines down.