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