How to begin?
A prison made of rock and chains; carrion birds hunger on high.
Fear demands an uncertainty which cannot be, here.
Distant crashing salt-spray wears away weathered cliffs,
inch by inch,
and with them it wears away...
There is no fear, not here.
If I should be seen running, it is not running away;
it is the slipping roll of a Sisyphus's rock,
the rattling snap of a Prometheus's chains,
and the headlong flight from the summit.