We lay motionless,
restless,
contemplating every single step,
entombed in our
forty-degree-below-zero cocoons,
praying for midnight to arrive.
Some call it the witching hour,
but not us,
my compadres,
we call it the ******* hour,
like why couldn't we all be home
in a big comfy bed
instead of lying on hard rock.
But I guess it's why we love hell,
the view at the top
is worth
every headache,
every nosebleed,
every bowl of victory chicken soup.