What mountains must I climb to reach the sky?
Wrestling and wriggling, wracking and writhing,
Full-driven by that call of do or die—
Legs straining, heart pounding, hands seizing
Razor rocky outcrops, shorn clods of grass
To gain advantage on that murderous mound
Of granite, thrust upward from an ancient past
That raised steep crags from cataclysmic ground.
What dubious joy to stand atop that peak—
Pure freedom now, with nowhere left to strive
But back the same…or downward, o’er the brink:
The final choice no sane soul would decide.
Yet if I choose the latter, who would know,
When summer’s melt unbinds these bones from snow?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.