12-29

When the push becomes greater than the effort itself

Chest heaving as the rib nags on with its insipid pain

The smell of iron in the sinuses

The crest of the hill is finally met

A twisted birch rots below the evergreens

And above the canopy of needles and twigs

A crow proclaims his story to the wind

It is here that the blood pumps to the eyes,

Creating a pulsating vision

Lulling the tingly skin to a floataway dance

As the heart begins to rest

 

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