Sonnet 188

What mountains must I climb to reach the sky?
Wrestling and wriggling, wracking and writhing,
Driven by that supreme sense of do or die,
Legs thrusting, heart pounding, hands seizing
Razor rocky outcrops, clods of shorn grass
To gain advantage on that murderous mound
Of granite, thrust upward from an ancient past
That reared steep heights from cataclysmic ground.
What dubious joy when finally at the top,
Save freedom now with no where left to trek
But back the same; or over off the drop…
What course to choose now, either forth or back;
And if I choose the former, who would know,
When summers’ melt unbinds these bones from snow?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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