Precipice

Who am I when the tide that brings me ashore ceases to ebb and flow? Who am I when the tools of my trade no longer fit my hands? When the sun that shows me the way is black as night, and gives no warmth, when the faces I see are no longer familiar to me and look upon my visage as a ghostly reminder from a time long since passed, who have I become? Where is my common ground? Where is my familiar place? Where is my peace? When I look in the mirror and no longer recognize the person looking back at me, where do I go from there? When i cease to find the circumstances of this life as appealing as I once did, when I can no longer find a reason or an answer to any of my questions, logic must prevail and pose the final question: what's the point?

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