Shrieking

Howling

Whipping

Wind tears at my flesh

Rocks tear at my fists

As I climb the spire

Higher, higher,

Listening to the wailing,

A thousand damned souls

Buried in the rock face I

Pull myself up.

Keep going.

Must keep going.

Can’t stop,

So close.

Pulling

Grasping

Reaching

Higher

Higher I climb

Over the faces

Buried in rock

Mother, father

Friends, teachers

Everyone

Can’t let any of them

Stop me now

He’ll get me,

That ghastly leaping thing

On the rocks below

Clad in rags

And a dead man’s skin

With empty eyes

And a skeletal sneer

Below his writhing silver hair

Up I go

Up I go

Ignore the pain

The sudden whiff of

Blood, tears, sweat,

The pleas of faces

Buried in the rocks

And that rasping whisper,

It’s not a race

You can ever win

There is no place to go.

Almost there.

Almost there!

I grab the edge,

Pull myself to the top

Of the heap and look around

And there’s nothing there

But shrieking wind

And jagged rocks

And the thing.

There’s no place to go.

Except down again

Or into swirling air

My fragile grip breaks

I am taken away

To add my own howls

To the storm

And wake,

Wake again

Convince my self it’s just a dream

Bandage my bloody hands

Shut the window to the wind

Prepare for work again.

by Anson Brehmer

To read more of Anson Brehmer’s poems and short stories visit vamplitpublishing.ning.com