On the Cusp

Perched upon the edge of what could be,
I'm standing on the cusp of death's abyss
with knowledge that could kill or set me free
and memories of nothing I shall miss.
The bitter twists and turns that brought me here
can't blind me to my own insanity,
which dwells inside the acid of my tears.
No strength is left, to shun complacency.
I'm disinclined to leave some lengthy prose;
divulging all would bring no shard of cheer
and when I'm gone, who cares what others know?
There's no one left to notice I'm not here.
"Farewell" would make a trite and pithy sound
and hardly fitting for this flighty bird.
The echoes of that lie would just rebound.
I die alone. All else would be absurd.