His right hand inches for the edge of the rock jutting out. Like many other edges, they provide him a platform to hold on and reach skyward. There are times where he holds on comfortably, safe and assured. Other times, it's difficult. Even a small pebble dislodged from the top is a threat to his existence as it plummets earth-bound. Every time his eyes follow it, they end up focusing on the darkness below.
That which rumbles underneath.
That which just might blow anytime.
That which shrieks and bellows at night.
That which whispers his name as the moon shines bright above.
Arrows of smoke,
Daggers of lightning,
Thrashes of thunder.
A sandstorm.
Blankets of
Small
Sharp
Speeding
Harsh
Crude
Blunt
Minute
Piercing
Memories.
Who wants to hold on to a burning rope?
In all common sense, one would let it fall.
Yet, once it falls, how would one know
if it is still burning?
My heart aches.
But, no time to ponder.
One has to wander.
Night is coming, and before that,
There is much to be done.
Even till I am on my knees.
Others before me.
