A mile high, the foreboding mountain stands.

I contemplate whether I can reach the top.

Hand to foot, I struggle with its height and its breadth,

with the reliance of an invisible harness.

What holds me up?

Is it pure will or a greater force at hand?

Muscles strain with perspiration.

Droplets down my face give the taste of salt upon my tongue.

The sensual scent of my own musk fills my nostrils.

With great effort, I’ve attained my goal,

the top of the mountain.  I look over

the crevices of stumbling and those of strong-holds.

Up here, the air is clean and fresh to breathe.

The sun’s warm rays soothe the scratches and bruises,

a souvenir I will not soon forget.

The ground beneath my feet feel

as if I am one with the mountain,

sprouted after being sown in.

Far removed with calming silence,

the whole world is in my sight.

One comment

  1. lasheastanard · January 17, 2015

    I thought I try something different with writing, “Accomplishment.”


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