By Andrew R. Duckworth
Steps up the mountain,
Covered with moss at the bottom,
Slippery and damp, hard to traverse.
Moving up towards the dying grounds,
Old trees intwining their barren branches,
Like a guardrail, hard to cross.
Colder, dryer, unforgiving air,
As I move up those mountain stairs,
Ice covered, hard to grip.
And, at the very top,
Alone, and able to see for miles,
Deserted, hard to communicate.
At the top, at the very top,
How lonely it must be at the very top.