One Soul Rising Poem by Dianne Feaver

There is a hill that steeply slopes toward the sea
where a  path is worn, bare and rugged,  
from the tread of souls upward to its misted  peak.
No one returns,   though they may slip a footfall,
trip on the wretch below or keep the one above
from holding on with, at best,   a tenuous grip.

And so they climb,   the upward pilgrimage
of will and grit a tribute to the high,
rare air the bravest seek,   above the earth
above an ordinary life, sure it is a lie
that the grass is not as green,   the sky
not as endless as the view 
from somewhere...up there,
where only the strongest survive.