still i struggle to find my place
and to accept my lot in life
and to sustain a breakneck pace
be’set on all cor’ners by strife
pushed to the edge by blade of knife
i press myself against its edge
exhale a cry as shrill as fife
and turn my head to face the ledge
my fancy takes to flight and chase
towards golden rays yet to arrive
and yet to cleanse my moon-kissed face
that no lon’ger in darkness thrives
a clematis that seeks to climb
so stubborn like a stalwart hedge
i cling onto the mountainside
and turn my head to face the ledge
i fall behind and still i race
in spite of reaper and his scythe
a hardened shell as frail as lace
that sinks like boulders as they dive
then splashes with a feeble cry
what i would give to swing the sledge
pre’cious ge’ode adorned inside
and turn my head to face the ledge
exquisite gems which within lie
plucked from the reeds and water dredged
i toss this stone and give it flight
and turn my head to face the ledge