The Man On The Hill

Upon I have come from climbing and sweat;
Up here I wait for the man that I met.

The rocks are all dusty and broken and tipped,
And the orange that they make is like rust that is ripped.

But he said “meet me there”
On that spot that is bare,

Where the demons won’t climb and take heart.
For the demons they loathe all the places untold,
And they hate to climb up for their part.

Thus the horror overtakes my withering soul,
As I look out above me on that hellish dark hole.

I almost fall off of that cliff where I stand,
And grab a sharp rock with my dry dusty hand.

The flames all lick up and flare at my move,
And my foot gets away and falls into a groove.

With that last small mundane uncertain bad step,
I fall off of the cliff and fall into deep depth,

Of all the fires and suffering and malice and woe.
And I think to myself “What a dumb way to go.”

So back into hell I’ve fallen again
And I hear all the monsters in their revelrous din.
Soon one looks at me with a vulturous grin.

And I hang my poor head for the madness to come;
For the horror that waits and the drum of the drum.

Then the demons of hell and the monsters do come,
To tear out my lungs and my spine and my tongue.

And they give us no water and the flames carry on,
For ever eternal in this fiery pond.

For the fall will not kill me, nor the demons nor flame,
And I know I’ve got only but myself to blame.

Though it heartens me little, it does hearten me still,
For the day that I meet that man up on the hill.

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