The Hill First Crossed

February 13, 2013
On a street corner littered by a haze
Lay a woman wrapped in but a torn sheet.
Her face forlorn, her mind caught in a maze,
She lights her last blunt, estranged by the heat.

A car wearily slips by her, then stops.
The sleek black body reverses in ease.
A man drunk on night grasps a whipping crop,
He strikes her neck as she pleads him to cease.

A pain she has grown far too accustom
The seams of her intuition thus tear.
Her lust for an end to horror dawns freedom,
A jab of her blunt to his face, no fear.

Her feet move swiftly, her mind remains still,
To climb a mountain, you must first climb hills.

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