He examined carefully the ruin, picking the way we would ascend,
From one boulder to the next,
He opened up his arms and thrust me forward with him,
On here, next here, Plotting up a route.
The needles, crags and spurs, try this with care,
Test it first, put your weight to it, ever so gently,
The weight he didn’t have, but inertia, force, he could still push me up.
Irony of course, the cloaks of lead weren’t going anywhere fast,
Not an escape route they could ever have considered.
No breath for words, effort,
Not sure I could have made it,
But given the assistance of the topology,
if you think about the conical descent of Malebolge
and the gouging of each terrace, meaning one bank high and have the other short;
We reached, at last, the seventh niche,
Made it to where the last jumbled stone of the ruined bridge breaks off.
And we’d found the smooth boulevard again
Panting. Hang on
I’d sat down,
—No time to waste, keep going,
Sloth – lie in bed while others are getting famous,
Nabbing the helium reward of renown, ahead of you,
Whoever spends their life without renown, nothing,
A smoke soon vanished, foam on a beer,
Like it or not,
The mind is stronger, and will always defeat the body,
The stuff about fame got me to my feet.
Come on then. Confidence, all you need is confidence.
We took our upward way upon the ridge,
With crags more jagged, narrow, difficult,
And even more steep than we had crossed before.
My talking, just for something to say,
Just to appear strong despite the low reserves,
Alerted a shade, underneath, from the next niched gloom
Croaking into action, no words recently for this one, unintelligible,
Tantalising, can’t make out….
I could tell he was running, from the voice trailing off,
—Can we get down there,
There’s things going on that I can’t see…
—The answer is obtained in the doing.