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They’ve prophecied my doom —

there are people outside my door

with stakes and torches

yelling for blood and — for what?

I’ve climbed up the mountain.

Perched on a cliff,

the drop looks dangerous,

and there’s still more to climb,

but my rope has been snapped,

soles ripped from my shoes,

eyes blinded by the fierce wind —

and, for the first time in a long while,

I consider walking out the door

and plunging down the steel incline

to the crowd of people below

who cheers for my failure.

But I guess that’s how it’s supposed to be,

since my fate has been written down

before I learned how to think.


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