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Whispers of Faith

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Blackness creeps from every corner,
every nook and cranny,
the cliff's edge inches away.
A shadow of a breeze graces the
goosebumps upon your skin.
"Step forward," it mutters quietly.

Spider's crawl up your back,
making your hair stand on edge.
You swat, too afraid to look.
A drop of warm liquid on your arm
forces your eyes to divert their attention.

The spiders stop.
Darkness becomes light:
sun setting in the west,
sun rising in the east,
settling on midday orange:
two spitting eyes fired with curiosity.

Breath hitching,
you step off the edge.
Ground.
Disbelief rushes your head.
You step again.
And again.
Air supports your weight.
You walk, and the wind blows;
you glide like a ghost.
"Trust," that wind murmurs.
Halfway you make it, listening;
halfway and you are safe.
You look down.
Boom!

An fire arrow seems to have
pierced your heart.
"Bullseye!" the wind hisses.
Air becomes air.
You fall, eyes clamped tight.
Falling, falling, falling, faster and faster
as you chase the darkness.

Colors change.
No more midday sun;
now just red sunset.
Lots and lots of crimson red.
And it's your fault.

Whistling rushes past you.
"Don't look down," it whispers.
"Never look down!"
Baby blues cannot resist temptation;
they glance down.
Bam!

No more colors.
No more whistling.
Silence.
"I told you not to look."




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