Ascension.

I'll wade through the morning like
the ankle-high mire that it is.
I'll crawl beyond the craters
of the barb'd afternoon,
into the rolling hills of eventide...
where the whipping Sun dies too soon.
I won't glide upon the morning's gaze
nor relish in its attention.
I'll ignore the sweet lull of noon
and fall to those rolling hills,
where I might delight in convention.
The thick web of night will fall,
and amongst it's netting catch
a man who stood tall,
but forever defied ascension.