Untitled Poem
The thing that takes bravery is
a sheer wall, and you’d rather scale it
carefully, with the abseil of sight
and the guide-rope of reason
with the cheers of your onlookers spurring you on.
Yet these ledges fall off
when you hold them too hard, and there’s no
room by this wall for onlookers,
no space for them to stand, though
they may well descend with you, if they choose.
Most likely, they won’t. The voices
you’ll hear most often are those
who prefer to raise their mocking cries
from the foothills and the valleys. Let them!
Their echo, flying back, will mock them too.
And if the sky, too, is too bright
for your darting eyes’ weak perception,
don’t wait for it to set or fall,
nor stare too hard, but let the glare
shine full upon all you can bare to see.
Just know that soon the time will come
to stop your circumambulation.
These rocks, though patient, decay like you,
and the majestic ground upholding you,
will wait no longer. It bids you leap.
The Consolations of Writing 