I am strong, I whisper to myself.
I raise my hands towards the sky,
my fingers curved as I softly try
to pluck the stars.
I am not going to die... not the way
you did, anyways. Part of me has
to die, I admit. It has the same
feelings as my near-death experiences.
I know that there are pieces, and
people, and words, and memories,
and whole environments I have to
let go of. I have to let go of perspectives
and the things I had held so dearly in
order to rise from this grave.
I will walk out of these woods alive.
YOU ARE READING
SUMMIT
PoetryHello there, ambitious climber. Welcome to this prose-poetry chapbook called "SUMMIT". This prose-poetry chapbook explores decision making in high-stakes situations, immense loss and grief, and choosing to reach the summit in spite of all the obstac...
