RIC S. BASTASA

an up climb of a hill
you're no stranger to this kind of height
you have been there where you hold on to rocks and roots
and cling and grip and say

i want to live for another day
and this hill is my stairway

to heaven you tell yourself over and over again
you touch the clouds, white like the icing of the cake
you lick the fog and caress the passing wind with your palms

you keep the lines of your destiny intact
the cliffs never change somehow

many have died and soon you shall be
next.

up there at the top you shall find yourself
triumphant

lonelier perhaps and colder and so quiet
console yourself to all these blunders

you are nearer to God and that is nice enough.