Clinging

I watched one day two scenes unfold before my very eyes,
Contrasting views of the same dream—one truth, one soothing lies.
The first saw hordes of people stroll along a narrow path.
Within their cliques, they held the rail, engaged in lovely chat.
They reached the end and ate some fruit, and licked their lips right clean.
Their bottled hair, their plastic lips, all effort left unseen.
The other showed a harsher view that one would never choose,
For it was dark, and tough, and hard, with scar, and sprain, and bruise.
There was no garden stroll this time, replaced by mountain crag.
Each step unsound, each grasp unsure, so many slips and snags.
Each climber clung fast to the rail, afraid of death below,
And pulled with all exhausted might—the journey wrought and slow.
With sweated brow, and knuckles raw, and shoulders drooped in pain,
The climber inches forward more and up each day again.