The Hills (Not a happy poem)

From birth you start your climb,
With each step a new view is gained.

Some people watch out for rocks and boulders,
While some others climb hap-hazardy without
Any regards.

You reach for the summit and then you see,
That there are many other hills in front of you.
And so you descend on the first one and run towards
Then next only to get that sinking feeling of
The repetitiveness in which we exist.

With each new High, you climb,
Inevitably you must reach a new low.
There is no middle ground unfortunately,
We all must follow this rule and take
The next slope in stride.

What is the point to the hill?
One might ask while descending on a low.
The answer can always be seen yet you may
Never reach it, for a mountain
Looms in the distance towards greatness.


Penned by my hand on the 17th of Midsummer, in the year 134 MA.