A mountain of stone, a forest of dreams, a rope used to climb to the top.
Each footstep in the frigid snow, crunch, crunch, crunch.
Each breath taken, stinging, hurting, freezing.
Ears red, nose red, cheeks red, but eyes filled with no colour.
Forward I go, further and further. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Many have joined, in the forest snow, in hopes to reach further within.
Each, a rope in hand, over their shoulder, climbing the mountain.
A knot tied, secured and steadfast.
To a tree, then to a branch, overtop it looks.
A top the mountain, I stand, taking the rope in hand.
It embraces me, holding me tight.
With one more step, off the mountain, my feet hang high in the storm.
Further and further I go.
Into the Forest of Dreams.
YOU ARE READING
The Rope and The Stone
PoetryNovember, 18th, 2023. A man is last seen entering the woods during the harsh winter night, with nothing but winter gear, boots, and a rope over his shoulder.
