Tendonitis is a small price to pay for euphoria.
he gasped at the brink of success mouth agape and strained like pulled taffy This project embraced him entirely consumed like a long lost relative Sometimes we don’t climb. we dance. It was no longer clear whether he climbed more than the earth climbed him: she clambered inside, ascending further into his psyche with every stretched, pulsing muscle grasp happiness bleeds into our contorted torso-Grace. like water running the pigment lines of saturated paintings. He cried out impassioned, shedding the skin of his palms again- upturned and reaching like a caustic supplication endowed with vibrating desire, quaking faith.
This time he fell hard. and again, slap mat against the grain of success flung downward like a thrice worn shirt
But wait- and watch. She calls him weeping- a contrite lover and he will return to her brutality nursed with humility- intoxicated with exhilaration.
I have recently become very involved with rock climbing. I have asked myself, why do I feel so passionate about this when it hurts so much and is so frustrating? This poem is an exploration of that juxtaposition.