I can see the gravel,
little stones making up the road,
shaloming between the cliffs,
up the mountain, tall and whole.
I can walk the road,
see all the houses on the plain,
meet all the people who didn't climb,
who didn't question or complain.
I can breach the enbankment,
feel the strain in my legs,
push my body to the limit,
to live, not sip the dregs.
I can feel my muscles complaining,
but the view is worth the pain,
I can see the people below,
like sheep upon the plain.
I will keep climbing,
though the road gets harder still,
sinking my own pitons
in the curiosity of my will.
I still am climbing,
up the mountain that bears all names,
it could as easily be Olympus,
but the point is still the same.
I have climbed out of the foothills,
which you barely tread at all;
I have so much more to gain,
so much further to fall.
But I still know it's worth it
to discover who I am.
I am searching for my purpose,
all I ask is for a hand.