this stage of my being
is but one plateau of many
stepping toward some end
of desired prestige and glory

when the glass is finally filled
and begins to overflow
the hand will then atrophy
the wearied gear will show

but for what purpose
is the reach for ripened fruit?
to feed some misplaced hunger?
or satiate some awful wonder?

the end is all the same
no matter the path thereto
since every high to me
may as well be a low to you