Out in the Cold

I sit at the bottom of the rope again,
eager to find the sturdiest strand
or maybe ask the ones who’ve left for a prop
because what’s the big deal if I drop?

I continue to strain every muscle,
grasping into dead air—
between me and all who has quit
searching for an embarrassment to fit.

I’ve tried them all on,
wasted months and years
trying to find an face ugly enough
for a grave that won’t be strong enough.

Either I’ll bask in the last patient few
or take the option to speed off,
stop reaching for an impossible climb,
and pivot my feet for a better rhyme.

I’ll let those ones dissipate,
grab on a little less
and learn how to let things fold
as its fate pushing me into another mold.