Cliffs

Cliffs

There is no beach here.
There are cliffs -
	sharp, pointed, uninviting.
Not even the force of the wind 
or the relentless beat of surf 
can turn them to dust.
They endure,
stubborn,
for eons.

The trees,
bent by the breeze, 
cling desperately to precious soil,
remain determined the rocks 
will not hold out alone.

Weeds and wild flowers
grow in the cracks and crevices,
away from probing eyes 
and picking fingers.

Below 
are bleached, crushed bones of the foolish,
for to enter the cliff's domain
is suicide -
no paths,
no hand holds,
no secure footings,
but, oh, 
so tempting...

And I 
never could resist.
I use  trees as anchors
	though they slip away;
weeds and flowers as handles
	though they pull free;
rocks as a slide
	though they bite my flesh.
Soon I'm at the bottom,
holding the bones 
of those I've bested.

Behind me, the cliff rises...
A polished wall of cold granite -
not even a crack remains,
absolutely      no      way      out.
I am captured,
destined to remain 
until I
am just another
smiling pile of bones.