My Writing

Something I Wrote a Few Years Ago...
 
Atop a hill, so high for me

To climb, but yet I made it see

O' er 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.