P.L. Powell

P. L. Powell lives and writes in College Park, Georgia.


Step back from the bare
edge, the fall that waits
is not your lover.

No clause suspends this
contract with life or
pays from roof for frays.

No rite will yield
a phrase for lost time
to begin again.

The claws that will tear
deepest are your own;
write them off─not billed.

Take up what you bear
with grace. It remains
your right to build stairs.

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