A Journal for Western Man-- Issue III
G. Stolyarov II
A weary alpinist an uphill road did face.
His ambience was but the frigid air's embrace.
And though his journey is but half complete,
His confidence begins already to deplete.
Amid the struggle of the treacherous rise,
He did from fear about his goal surmise.
"I'm underway on the ascent to what?
A lonely summit in aquatic vapors caught?"
"Why must I this arduous struggle maintain
When I can live in ease and others' work disdain,
Indulge myself in every primitive delight,
Drink beer and smoke tobacco, stifle great men's plight?"
"That then shall all my cherished time consume.
I see no need this dreadful journey to resume."
He stopped, he turned, he halted his advance.
"No more," he said, "of this absurd heroic trance."
An ice speck fell and tumbled into the abyss.
The man moved not; he'd have no part in this.
Up was too high, and the fall was too long;
The frigid torrents nearby howled their song.
In stillness he remained, to shiver from the cold began.
No sparks of motivation had remained within this man.
He feared to ascend, and he feared to decline,
And only to shake was his "fearless" design.
With such force he trembled, that waves he did send,
Disruptions that did snow's stability mend
'Till this spread of white, from as far as the peak,
Tens of its mounds upon him did wreak.
And never did anyone this coward find,
The man whom his fear from a challenge resigned.
And now may the answer wise readers decide:
What's truly flawed, pride... or suicide?
