At the edge of it...

Lone and lonesome sitting on the edge,
I feel the lapping flow beneath me;
Filling a bowl the scale of a land,
Stretching far and wide; far as I can see...

Rumbling clouds and raging thunder;
The big bowl begins to fill with dark and black
Howling winds and concealing mists but; not
A drop breaks bowl's skin and nor my silent din!

Rapt attention my soul just broods, forgetting
my time in the vast expanse; I realize the bowl
filling up with some mystery; dark, silent,
deafening and misty...

Voices from the past - My nightly lullaby,
The dark engulfs my flesh and drugs me
Too deep; but the bowl still breeds, for,
My feet, my hands, my eyes and my cries;
Feed and bleed at the edge of it...