My Writing

Something I Wrote a Few Years Ago...
 
Atop a hill, so high for me
To climb, but yet I made it see
Oer chiselled stone and tricky soil
And under sun that seemed to boil
The night away, and with it day came suddenly. 

I stood not long, not long at all
That climb it takes a lasting toll
The waves of heat, a furnace fire
Had all but doused my weak desire
To lag along, towards the top, of that hill-like knoll.

But on I went, my shoulders bent
A trickling of essence spent
Abandoned by my wrinkled brow
And even now I don't know how
Up to the crest, I finally said, I made it.

My hand it curled a gesturing
Of victory claimed, no forfeiting
By me; with a mighty smile, my arm I raised
As if to show that I was pleased
At having hiked so carefully.

So why be sad at something done?
When all the while, like everyone,
I could have said at any time
I give up; and just the same
I might have never tried.

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