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Climbing

Each crevice firmer than before
A mere grip from more success
Like spiders with their deaths in store,
They tense to withstand less
But on they move for spider lord,
The instinct-driven beast
Caught between the unexplored
And a grand nostalgia feast
It’s hope that stirs their soul
To crest the unforgiving crags
And bitter winds of things they stole
That numbs and gnaws and nags
Then of a sudden hands grow weak
And fail the master’s will
For what they find at top of peak
Is another mountain still
That victory still comes is sure
For from the grip’s release
Come hands that finally find their cure
In death’s untroubled peace.

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