The Brittle Boundary

Wood leans crooked, splintered

where vines clutch tight,

curling gray fingers that squeeze dry life.

The fence creaks under weight —

a stray cat, a shifting wind,

dry leaves crackle like old paper

beneath my hesitant feet.

Its sour breath—mold and rot—hisses sharp,

a line drawn uneven,

waiting for the moment it snaps,

breaking the space between here and what’s beyond.