Kicked, I tip over the lip, and plummet down a well.
Falling, falling, screaming, and calling, toward the firelake of hell?
Thrashing and lashing, I hit the drink splashing, and sink to the inky deep.
Kicking and stroking, sputtering and choking, I claw at the well wall so steep.
Treading water, I curse the kicking rotter, who sentenced me too this fate.
Taking note, I consider what floats, and jettison my anger, fear, and hate.
They’ll just weigh me down, cause me to drown, and not on my side is the time.
There is no try, nothing but do or die, my only course is to climb.
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on January 20, 2015.
