the climb is steep
the footholds not deep
to land my shoe. The air is
thin. And no rescue. The drop

is sheer. The top is just a resting
spot to sit for a minute. This mountain
has teeth. And should I slip
into oblivion I'll burn in the sun and

freeze in the rain. The days are
chains of smoke poking me
in the side. I'm on this vertical
ride till I slide off. But till then I'll

pen the scenery in cool azure and fiery
crimson. And leave the flags for my next of
kin. Then bid them tidings of my findings. So,
they may read the records of my climbing.