It’s dark.
The air is thick.
It reeks of musk and envy.
Every once in awhile,
the faint smell of rotten flesh
tells me another has given up.
Cynicism breeds rapidly
and it’s time to get out.
But each night is the same.
I muster up the strength,
prepare for the climb.
As I draw closer to the top
one latches on,
parasite-like, and then another
and another.
I’m a fighter.
I’m strong.
Pessimistic and defeatist thoughts
I dismiss.
But the sheer weight
defeats my vigor.
Some laugh,
consider me foolhardy
for trying.
“Foolish dreamer,” they say.
But, I can see the moon.
And when I try
really hard,
I can smell the salt water.
Elevation is in my reach.
So, I will never give up.
Even it means gnawing off
each limb.
I won’t be held back.
