Climbing ever higher,
last week, bartered my soul,
to the richest buyer.

Miles from the summit,
a man with idle hands,
and insatiable wit.

Scaling above the trees,
an effortless feat, like
swinging from a trapeze.

I can’t feel my fingers,
the further up I climb,
my mind starts to linger.

This man floats above me,
to urge on my ascent,
to become what I’ll be.

With a sinister smile,
he pushes me toward,
my own miracle mile.

It’s too late to repent,
for all of my misdeeds,
or for me to repent.

Up on this mountain side,
with no soul to my name,
and evil as my guide.

I’ll get myself to the top,
filled with a sense of pride,
just to be made to drop.

The fall happens so fast,
feel the fire rushing,
up to meet me at last.

Now we’ll go up in flames,
that’s me, my soul and I,
without an heir to claim.

Except for the buyer,
with his delicate hands,
climbing ever higher.

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