The Last Twilight

Morrow or twilight?
It really does not make a difference. Not now.
Coals underfoot. He must move.
He holds such power.
It forms a noose around his neck.
It tightens at the draw of each breath.
Still, he jumps.
Foolish, to inquire about one's own mortality in such a way.
Or sound?
Oh, what a sight it must be to lie within his skull!
Would I shift the domain?
Or would I kill for a spell of some exquisite mastery ?
Even if it meant that I, myself, would be on the wrong end of a sword?
I try to draw from the well of my hidden demons.
How far from sanity must one be to take such measures?
To make it so incomplex?
As simple as an exhale, though it would be the last.
Standing at the edge,
I gaze lifelessly at the stars.
It is twilight.
I have come to realize that it certainly does make a difference.
For their glimmer will be the last thing I see.
Coals underfoot.
I must move.
I jump.