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Tumbling.
That’s the feeling.
Like life is flinging you down the hill
faster, and more violently,
the longer it goes.
Sick to your stomach in nauseated dizziness,
you half-heartedly pray for it to end.
At least until you realize what that means;
until you realize that the chaos of this hill
is all you have to hold on to.
In these alternating patches of grass and bare dirt,
lies the only legacy you will ever leave.
So tumble on.
Let the sickness hit your stomach
with all the force it can gather.
And trust that,
in all the craziness this hill brings,
you are leaving a mark
somewhere.
This poem © Kevin Walker. Published February 2014.
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