I don’t look down.
Above I can hear wide walls of
water dropping into pools,
spilling over countless edges.
I grasp at stones,
lift my feet onto slippery steps,
they slide on mossy sludge,
sink in deep pockets of mud.
My clasp of fingers grip spindly
veins reaching for me,
pulleys that resist when I let go.
I scream at the fury of water
that thrashes the rocks,
beating them to death for
derailing its downward path and
there is no way to console them.
The retribution is why I come here,
a hell of pounding retaliation,
blasts of spray cross my back,
sting of needles upon my neck.
My misty image in sheets of glass
crashing around me.