If hope ever climbed up a ***** so steep,
atop a peak that no man would dare go,
there it would find a sight certain to keep
the drive for life alive, however slow.

The hills below would roll and stroll, lazy
upon the lines of sky, puffed up with pride.
Their ridges, like bridges to heights hazy,
cut swaths in time, but at sunrise run, hide.

Light, pale light, of mother moon brings to light
on deep green grass, dust covered specs unloved.
Shadows cast weave in wind the weaklings plight,
to sit and stare at cliffs adrift above.

They sit affixed to ground and drown betwixt
the sounds below, night lights above, perplexed.