Climbing up the red rock
there is always a place
where I can't see
the next hand hold.
Stopping there, I let my feet rest
taste my dusty metallic breath
lick my dried lips
and bending my aching neck,
look up.
If I can't see the dark spots,
shadows of hand holds
above,
I stand listening to my uneven breath
feeling my legs begin the shake of tired,
my bodies personal message of despair.
My brain echoes,
propelled by fear and begins to talk
I can't, stop , you could die
until my hands begin shaking
my heart begins to beat
a message of fragility in my ears.
In my best moments,
I have learned
to look up again
and see the probably impossible
push my shaking legs up,
swing upwards and reach.
sometimes, I lose
crash downward,
burn my fingers on the rope,
bruising ribs against rock
sometimes I find another hold.
Curious though
I only hear maybe.
maybe you can.
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