The Anonymous Weeper

5/8/20

The cragged crocks,

And the ragged rocks,

Warned me that I would die.

But for the mountain climber’s thrill,

I will climb it still,

Or at least I will try.

A rocky foothold, a tiny ledge,

A smooth handgrip, a granite edge,

All as I claw my way to the sky.

Almost there, almost to the summit,

A misplaced foot, an awful plummet,

Alas I cannot fly.

I’m a mountain climber beat, a mountain climber dead,

So, leave my body, leave my head,

Where Death has bidden it lie.