At the base of a mountain.
The sky isn’t dark but the colour is drained.
The amorphous summit looms.
You can never scale it.
You reach and grasp at the sides for support,
But it turns to a viscous solid,
Then into sloop as soon as you touch it.
It’s not a hole.
Climb out of the pit.
You are not stuck,
Trawling among the depths,
Scavenging the dead.
Every night you try and climb the slimy slopes,
But it consumes all efforts,
Swallowing whole your hands
Which flows as a fountain,
From the mountain,
Which you cannot climb,
But may drink from infinitely.
It pours like molasses into your hands,
Parched and crumbling
The golf ball in the back of your throat,
Sits waiting to be washed away,
Instead sickly sticking to your gums,
When you taste the syrup.
You brush the dried salt from your face,
Push against the hand holding your head,
From looking up,
And hear from afar,
The sounds of friends,
Like they are at a backyard picnic,
Whose fence is just tall enough to cloak,
All the faces and smiles.
Your neck is tired from pushing.
The hand eases your head down again,
To the base of the mountain.