Our feet sinking in mud
Our hands scratching away at the eggshell path
We carelessly march across leaving prints for our followers
As we near the split I question my own intent
Paused and eyeing the gutter trail to the right,
downhill, lined with sewers and littered with grinding joints, tense tissues, our polluted memories
Should I lead to higher ground?
I'll never taste the icy summit.
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