Gate's narrow and the path is steep,
and he's so dizzy from the winding streets
and the options there that are there to meet
with such friendly faces and dragon teeth,
that sink so deep. They are calling,
but he keeps onward, out of control.
Just two lines there in the mountain snow.
His chest is hurting from a distant rope,
a lariot's burning, slipping hard on his soul.
In time he'll make it, he tells himself,
but then he's naked, cold, and crying for help
from a dragon watching and a pile of snakes
to singe his rope and poison his legs;
and to the years below, their warm open road
to catch his weary, frozen soul
in a million pieces like shards of glass,
in his last stand before he melts away.
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