A brief drabble.
* * *
Braeburn
Prospect
Its
skin is like a sheer cliff face
Made of
autumn-dappled plastic,
And no
one has marred its immaculate surface
With
succulent attempts to climb.
And
yet, a solitary flag
Has
been planted in its summit.
It
arches out from that sudden slope in the apex,
As if
to say, “There’s no such thing as unscalable.”
But the
flag crawled up from within;
You
won’t reach the top that way.
Find a
tooth-hold,
And the
taste of a summer shower
Saving
you from the indignity of August sweat
Will
trickle down your chin as you rise.
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