Descent Poem by Alex Garr

The edge gripped with a will
And nothing more,
A soft breeze, a brush on skin.
Falling falling
falling
Past forms unseen,
Past landscapes whipping by in streaks of color.
Light dimming to a single point above,
Too far and getting farther,
A seemingly impossible distance
To which one must return.

Dropped upon a midden
Reeking of filth and dregs,
Brown sludge leaking through boots
To soak woolen socks.
Cliffs of refuse rising
Towards a sunlit halo
Containing handholds unseen.
The climb must begin,
But how to start?