Staring at an empty page
with fear-envelopped mind,
and knowing that this bleeding rock
will ever-onwards grind.

I would stand atop a mountain,
screaming,bleeding,if I thought
that screaming, thus, would seize the helm
and bleeding, change the course.

Yet, how to buffet, by my will,
the dice of Fate, now thrown?
And, what am I, but rotting flesh
and slowly-splintering bone?