Three days in the coming
just two feet climbing the steep.
Following The Children of the Mists
ancient tread, rising beyond
the Lake of Rippling Waters.
An old body aches
from the effort it takes,
blood soaks boots
from heels that break.
The dark is quicker
no view to share
now wait the morning.
No rolling hills here,
simply two thousand foot sheer
and the lake hidden
in mists below.
The precipice at my aching feet
as rising on the day
the sun does greet,
bleeding voluptuously into sky
while the mind holds sway.
Could be a great day to fly or die?
no need of rip stop canopy
just a two step to eternity.
No blot on the landscape,
only another bleeding son
in the mist below.
But thoughts like sunrise
are fleeing things
and the question remains,
could it have been
a great day to fly or die?
The answer lies in the valley
between a gentle woman's sighs.