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Of reaching the zenith
there’s little hope,
climbing hand over hand on a
well greased rope.

Though my hands are calloused,
they fail to grip.
into the abyss of abject madness
I progressively slip.

Talk to me quickly before my
mind dissipates.
Eternal futility grins manically,
it patiently waits.

The knot at the end waylays the
slippage a titch,
but the reality of the finale is a
son of a bitch.

Submitted for 'The Hurrier I Go, The Behinder I Get'

By AlwaysMyWords

© 2011 AlwaysMyWords (All rights reserved)


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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - "The Hurrier I Go, The Behinder I Get" (challenge has been closed)

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