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The Art of Poetry.
Eye to Eye with Fate
© October 10, 1988 by Paul M. Combs, Jr. All Rights Reserved

Upon the beach, the waves had come to meet.
Through the clouds, the mourning sun hit the dock.
There, I sat upon the towering rocks.
I, then, stood up to climb a few more feet.

And as I climbed, my hands began to slip.
Something began to drip upon my hair,
I was shocked: Why did blood drip from up there?
Ahead was the top, there was one last grip.

All I could see at the top of the hill
Was a rotting corpse, there in front of me.
I dared not to move, for fear this could be.
Within the corpse, a rock had made the kill.

Due to fear, I dared not to hesitate,
I slipped and fell and followed this man’s fate.